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IF y S W H IL RO !u' U, 'ii Lf^ 




THE 



FEMALE POETS 



OF 



AMERICA. 



BY RUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD. 



I AM OBNOXIOUS TO EACH CARPING TONGUE 

THAT SAYS MY HAND A NEEJlLE BETTEXt FITS; 

A I'OET'S I'EN ALL SCORN I THUS SHOULD WRONG, 

FO[t SUCH DESPJTE THEY CAST ON FEMALE WITS 

BUT SURE THE ANTIQUE GREEKS WERE FAR MORE MILD, 
ELSE OF OUR SEX WHY FEIGNED THEY THOSE NINE, 
AND POESY MADE CALLIOPE'S OWN CHILD? — 
SO MONGST THE REST THEY PLACED THE ARTS DIVINE. 

The Foub Elcmgxts ; By Anne Bradstreet. Boston, 1640. 



O^/ 



PHILADELPHIA: 
CAREY AND HART, CHESNUT STREET. 

MDCCCXLIX. 






ENTERED, ACCORniNG TO ACT (IF CONGRESS, IN THE VEAR 1648, BY CAREY Jf HART, IN THE OFFICE OF THE 
CLERK OF THE DISTRICT COURT OF THE EASTERN DISTRICT OF PENNSYLVANIA 






C. C. SAVAGE. STERKOTVPER. N. V. 



T. K & P. a. COLUNS, PRINTERS. 



THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED TO 

MRS. JACOB LITTLE, 

WHOSE KNOWLEDGE AND TASTE IN THE BEST LITERATURES, 

WILL GUIDE HER TO A JUST ESTIMATE OF ITS CONTENTS, 

AS ILLUSTRATIONS OF 

THE GENIUS, CULTURE, AND CHARACTER OF HER COUNTRTWOMEN- 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



EDITH. 

ENGRAVED BY WM. HUSrPHKTS, FROM A PAINTIUS BY C. R. LESLIE, R. A. . Frontispiece. 

A PORTRAIT. 

FAINTED BY GILBERT STUART, AND ENGRAVED BY JOHN CHENEY . . . Title page. : 

THE COUNTRY MAIDEN. 

ENGRAVED BY JOHN CHENEY, FROM A PAINTING BY W. PAGE .... Page 192 

HARVEY BIRCH. 

ENGRAVED BY J. J. PEASE, FROM A PAINTING BY A. B. DURAND 237 ' 

BIANCA. 
ENGRAVED BY J. B. FORREST, FROM A PAINTING BY SULLY 285 

THE HANDMAID. 

ENGRAVED BY JOHN CHENEY, FROM A PAINTING BY D. HUNTINGTON .... 372 



PREFACE. 



It is less easy to be assured of the genuineness of literary ability In women 
than in men. The moral nature of women, in its finest and richest develop- 
ment, partakes of some of the qualities of genius ; it assumes, at least, the simili- 
tude of that which in men is the characteristic or accompaniment of the highest 
grade of mental inspiration. We are in danger, therefore, of mistaking for the 
efflorescent energy of creative intelligence, that which is only the exuberance 
of personal " feelings unemployed." We may confound the vivid dreamings of 
an unsatisfied heart, with the aspirations of a mind impatient of the fetters of 
time, and matter, and mortality. That may seem to us the abstract imagining 
of a soul rapt into sympathy with a purer beauty and a higher truth than earth 
and space exhibit, which in fact shall be only the natural craving of affections, 
undefined and wandering. The most exquisite susceptibility of the spirit, and 
the capacity to mirror in dazzling variety the effects which circumstances or 
surrounding minds work upon it, may be accompanied by no power to origi- 
nate, nor even, in any proper sense, to reproduce. It does not follow, because 
the most essential genius in men is marked by qualities which we may call 
feminine, that such qualities when found in female writers have any certain or 
just relation to mental superiority. The conditions of aesthetic ability in the 
two sexes are probably distinct, or even opposite. Among men, we recognise 
his nature as the most thoroughly artist-like, whose most abstract thoughts still 
retain a sensuous cast, whose mind is the most completely transfused and in- 
corporated into his feelings. Perhaps the reverse should be considered the 
test of true art in woman, and we should deem her the truest poet, whose emo- 
tions are most refined by reason, whose force of passion is most expanded and 
controlled into lofty and impersonal forms of imagination. Coming to the duty 
of criticism, however, with something of this antecedent skepticism, I have 
reviewed the collection of works which my task brought before me, with fre- 
quent admiration and surprise ; and leaving to others the less welcome task of 
rejecting pretensions, which must inspire interest, if they can not command 
acquiescence, I content myself with expressing, affirmatively, my own con- 
viction, that the writings of Mrs. Maria Brooks, Mrs. Oakes-Smith, Mrs. 



PREFACE. 



Osgood, Mrs. Whitman, and some others here quoted, illustrate as high and 
sustained a range of poetic art, as the female genius of any age or country can 
display. Those who cherish a belief that the progress of society in this country 
is destined to develop a school of art, original and special, will perhaps find 
more decided indications of the infusion of our domestic spirit and temper into 
literature, in the poetry of our female authors, than in that of our men. It has 
been suggested by foreign critics, that our citizens are too much devoted to 
business and politics to feel interest in pursuits which adorn but do not profit, 
and which beautify existence but do not consolidate power: feminine genius 
is perhaps destined to retrieve our public character in this respect, and our 
shores may yet be far resplendent with a temple of art which, while it is a 
glory of our land, may be a monument to the honor of the sex. 

The American people have been thought deficient in that warmth and deli- 
cacy of taste, without which there can be no genuine poetic sensibility. Were 
it true, it were much to be regretted that we should be wanting in that noble 
capacity to receive pleasure from what is beautiful in nature or exquisite in 
art — in that venerating sense — that prophetic recognition — that quick, intense 
perception, which sees the divine relations of all things that delight the eye or 
kindle the imagination. One endowed with an apprehension like this, becomes 
purer and more elevated, in sentiment and aspiration, after viewing an embodi- 
ment of any such conception as that specimen of genius materialized, the Bel- 
videre Apollo, " at the aspect of which," says Winckelmann, " I forget all the 
universe : I involuntarily assume the most noble attribute of my being in order 
to be worthy of its presence." I shall not inquire into the causes of the denial 
that this fine instinct exists among us. The earlier speculations upon the sub- 
ject, by Depaw and others, were deemed of sufficient importance to be an- 
swered by the two of our presidents who have been most distinguished in 
literature and philosophy: but they have been repeated, in substance, by De 
Tocqueville, who had seen, or might have seen, the works of Dana, Bryant, 
Halleck, Longfellow, and Whittier ; of Irving, Cooper, Kennedy, Hawthorne, 
and Willis ; of Webster, Channing, Prescott, Bancroft, and Legare ; of Allston, 
Leslie, Leutze, Huntington, and Cole ; of Powers, Greenough, Crawford, 
Clevenger, and Brown. Such prejudices, which could not be dispelled by the 
creations of these men, will be little affected by anything that could be offered 
here: yet to an understanding guided by candor, the additional display of a 
body of literature like the present, exhibiting so pervading an asinrai'wn after 
the beautiful — under circumstances, in many cases, so little propitious to its 



PREFACE. 



action — and in a sex which in earlier ages has contributed so sparingly to high 
art — will come with the weight of cumulative testimony. 

Several persons are mentioned in this volume whose lives have been no 
holydays of leisure : those, indeed, who have not in some way been active 
in practical duties, are exceptions to the common rule. One was a slave — 
one a domestic servant — one a factory girl : and there are many in the list 
who had no other time to give to the pursuits of literature but such as was 
stolen from a frugal and industrious housewifery, from the exhausting cares of 
teaching, or the fitful repose of sickness. These illustrations of the truth, that 
the muse is no respecter of conditions, are especially interesting in a country 
where, though equality is an axiom, it is not a reality, and where prejudice 
reverses in the application all that theory has affirmed in words. The pro- 
priety of bringing before the world compositions produced amid humble and 
laborious occupations, has been vindicated by Bishop Potter, with so much 
force and elegance, in his introduction to the Poems of Maria James, that I 
regret that the limits of this preface forbid my copying what I should wish 
every reader of this book to be acquainted with. 

When I completed " The Poets and Poetry of America," a work of which 
the public approval has been illustrated in the sale of ten large editions, I 
determined upon the preparation of the present volume, the appearance of 
which has been delayed by my interrupted health. I must be permitted, how- 
ever, to congratulate with the public, that since my intention was announced 
and known, others have relieved me from the responsibility of singly executing 
that which I had been hardy enough singly to plan and propose. Their merits 
may compensate for my deficiencies. The first volume of this nature which 
appeared in this country, was printed in Philadelphia in 1844, under the thle 
of "Gems from American Female Poets, with brief Biographies, by Rufus W. 
Griswold." As Mr. T. B. Read, in his "Female Poets of America," (it is 
Mr. Read's j)ublisher who declares, in the advertisement to this work, that 
" the biographical notices which it contains have been prepared in every instaiice 
from facts either within his personal knowledge, or communicated to him 
directly by the authors or their friends,") and Miss C. May, in her "American 
Female Poets," (in the preface to which she acknowledges a resort to " printed 
authorities,") have done me the honor to copy that slight performance with 
only a too faithful closeness, I owe them apologies for having led them into 
some errors of fact. Both of them, transcribing from the "Gems," speak of 
Mrs. Mowatt as the daughter of " the late" Mr. Samuel Gouverneur Ogden : 



10 



PREFACE. 



I am happy to contradict the record, by stating that Mr. Ogden still enjoys in 
health and vigor the honors of living excellence. Mr. Read, reproducing my 
early mistake, has given Mrs. Hall the Christian name of Elizabeth, and the 
birthplace of Boston. Nothing but the extraordinary haste with which the 
trifling volume of 1844 was put together, could excuse my ignorance that the 
name of the authoress of " Miriam" was Louisa Jane, and that she was a native 
of Newburyport. In one or the other of these volumes are many more errors, 
for which I confess myself solely responsible ; but it would be tedious to point 
them out, while it would be scarcely necessary to do so, as they will undoubt- 
edly be corrected, from the present work, should the volumes referred to attain 
to second editions. 

It is proper to state that a large number of the poems in this volume are now 
for the first time printed. Many authors, with a confidence and kindness which 
are justly appreciated, not only placed at my disposal their entire printed works, 
but gave me permission to examine and make use of their literary MSS. without 
limitation. 



CONTENTS. 



/ 



/ 



IXTBODHOTIO:!..... ,. „ P*OB 7 

MRS. ANNE BRADSTREET. 

A Contemporarj- of Spenser and Shakspere. 17 

EJilions of her Poems published in Boston and London 17 

John Woodbiidge's Account o( her and her Works 17 

Du Battas the Fashionable Poet of the Age 18 

Veraes to her, and Notices of her, by Nath. Ward, B. Wood- 
bridge, John Norton, Cotton Mather, and President Rogers. 18 

Extracts from her Poems addres-t-ed to her Husband 19 

An Elegy upon the De.ith of her Grandchild 19 

Verses in her old Age upon the Death of her Daughter-in-law. 19 

Her Death, Character, and Descendants 19 

Extract from Ihe Prolngiee to the Four Elements 19 

Extract from Coiuemplatmis 20 

MRS. MERCY WARREN. 

Social Position and Connexion with Public Affairs 21 

Notice of her Satire entitled The Groitp. with Extracts 21 

Notices of her Tragedies, Tke Sack of Rome, and The Ladies 

of Castile, with Extracts 23 

Extracts from other Poems 22 

Tilings necessary to the Life of a Woman 23 

Acquaintance with John Adams and Washington.- 23 

History of the American Revolution 28 

Character, and Roche fou caul t 'a Opinion of her.- 23 

MRS. ELIZABETH GR,€ME FERGUSON. 

Society in Philadelphia before the Revolution .. 24 

Mrs. Ferguson's Family — Disappointment in Love — Voyage to 

Europe — Acquaintance with Laurence Sterne, &c 24 

Her Marri.ige. and Relations with the Whigs and Tories 25 

Connexion with Dr. Duche, and Affair of General Reed 25 

Her later Years 25 

Cbaracter of her Poems and Translations 25 

Invocation to Wisdom 25 

Extracts from Telemnc/nw „ 26 

The Procession of Calypso 26 

Apollo tcitJi tlie P locks of King Admettts 27 

Tlie Invasion of Love 27 

MRS. ANNE ELIZA BLEECKER. 

Early Years, Marriage, and Removal to Tomhanick 28 

Extract from a Poem descriptive of her Home 28 

Extracts from Verses addressed to Mr. Eleecker 23 

Flight from Tomhanick on the Approach of the British Army.. 28 

Lines written on this Event 28 

Visit to New York, last Return to Tomhanick, and Death 29 

MRS. PHILLIS WHEATLEY PETERS. 

Purchased while a Child, in the Boston Slave Market 30 

Her early Acquirements and the Interest tliey e.xcited-. 30 

Visits London, and is introduced to Lady Huntingdon... 30 

Curious Address to the Public respecting her, by the Governor 

of Massachusetts, and Others 30 

Loses her Master, and marries for a Home , 30 

The Abbe Gregoire's Account ofber 30 

Her Husband a " handsome Man and a Gentleman" 31 

She quarrels with lum without good Reaacm-... 31 

General Washington's Letter to her 31 

Her inedited MSS. now in Philadelphia 31 

Mr. Jefferson compares her to the Heroes of the DnncJad..-.. 31 

Opinions respecting her by Gregoire, Clarkson, and others 31 

On the Death of the Rev. Mr. George Whiiejield 32 

Extract from a Poem On the Imagination 32 

A Farevjell to America 32 

MRS. SUSANNAH ROWSON. 

Her Father a British Officer in New England 33 

Her Marriage in London and Literary Life there 33 

Great Sale of her Charlmu Temple 33 

Her Character and Career as an Actress 33 

Retires fiom the Stage, and establishes a School in Boston 33 

Account of her Works _.. 33 

America, Commerce, and Freedom 34 

Kiss the Brim, and Let it Pass 34 

TViankiigiving __^ jj^ 

MRS. MARGaRETTA V. FAUGERES. 

A Daughter of Mrs. Bleecker 35 

Unfortunate Marriage, and the Dissipation of her Fortune 35 

Review of her Be/wnrius, n Tragedy 35 

Extract from her Poem on The Hudson _. 37 

Verses addressed to tlte Members of the Cincinnati,,..... ,. 37 



MISS ELIZA TOWNSEND. 

Mr. Nicholas Biddle's Opinion of her Prize Ode paob 33 

She IS educated during a Peiiod of singular Excitement 33 

SouUiey's Ode on Napoleon, written in 1814, like hers of 1809-. 38 

Dr. Clieever's Commendation of one of her Poems 38 

An Occasional Ode, written in Jane, 1809 39 

Pneni To Robert SouUiey , written in 1812 41 

The Incomprehensibility nf God 42 

Another " Castle in the Air" 43 

Extract from a Poem On the Death of Chas. Srockdert Brototi. 43 

MRS. LAVINIA STODDARD. 

Her History and Character 44 

The Sours Dijiance 44 

Song 44 

MISS HANNAH F. GOULD. 

Her Father 45 

Spriglitliness and Individuality of bei Genius 45 

A Name in the Sand 46 

Changes on the Deep 46 

The Scar oj" Lexington 47 

The SnowFlake 47 

The Winds. 48 

The Frost 48 

The Water/all 48 

Tlie Moon upon the Spire 49 

The Robe 49 

The Consignment 49 

The Winter Burial fiO 

The Pebble and the Acorn 50 

Tlie Ship is Ready 50 

T/ie Childon the Beach 51 

Tfie Midnight Mail 61 

MRS. CAROLINE OILMAN. 

Marries Dr. Oilman, and resides m South Carolina. 62 

Notices of her Prose Writings and Poems 52 

Rosalie 62 

The Plantation 54 

Music on the Canal 65 

The Congi'essional Burying-Ground - 65 

Tothe Ursulines 66 

Return to Massachusetts 56 

Annie in the Graveyard 66 

MRS. SARAH JOSEPHA HALE. 

Her Marriage and subsequent Literary Studies 67 

Publishes The Genius of Oblivion and other Poems 57 

Character of Nori h ivood ^nd her other Prose Works 57 

'Editor of The Ladies' Magazine, the Lady's Book, &c 67 

Publishes Three Hours, or the Vigil of Love, and other Poems.. 57 

Her Ormond Grosvenor, Harry Guy, and other Poems 58 

Extent of her Writings, and their Character ^ 68 

The Mississippi. 59 

T/ie Four-Leaved Clover. 60 

Description of Alice Ray 60 

Iron 61 

The Watcher 61 

I Sing to Him 62 

Jhe Light of Home 62 

The Ttvo Maidens 63 

MRS. ANNA MARIA WELLS. 

Her Husband an Author 63 

Publication of lier Poems, in 1830 63 

Asnitney 63 

The Turned Eagle 63 

Tlte OldElm-Tree 64 

Anna 64 

The Future 64 

The WhUe Hare 65 

lyie Sea-Bird 65 

MISS MARIA JAMES. 

Her Poems published by Bishop Potter. 66 

Her own Account of her Life 66 

Ode for the Fourth of July 67 

The Pilgrims 67 

The Soldier's Grave 68 

To a Singing-Bird ; 68 

Good Friday 08 

11 



12 



CONTENTS. 



MRS. MARIA BROOKS, (Maria del Occidente.) 

Her Early Life passed in tbe Viciniti' of Boston paqe 69 

Changes of Fortune described, in an Extract from /dowen 69 

Publislies Judith, Esther, and other foems -- 69 

Review of tins Volume 70 

Cupid the Runaway, from llie Greek of Mosclius - 70 

Deatli of her Husband, Reaiilence in Cuba, and Travels . 70 

Mr. Soulhey superintends the Publication of Zophid 70 

Verses addressed to liim 70 

Review of Zop/iiet, with Extracts •• 71 

Creative Energj', Passion, and Delicacy, exhibited in it 79 

Its Publication in Boston 79 

Opinii'ns of it by Southey, Cliarles Lamb, and others, (Note,).. 79 
Mrs. Brooks's Residence at West Point and Fort Columbus... 79 

Prints Idomen, for Private Circulation 79 

Her Life and Character illuatrated in that Work 80 

Visits her EsUile in Cuba 80 

E.\tract3 from her Letters 80 

Her Deatli SO 

Further Extracts from Ztyjkiel 81 

Ode on Revisiting Cuba 83 

Ode to Che Depaiccd 84 

J/j/7/in 86 

The Moon of F'ouiers 86 

To the River St. Lawrence 87 

To Niagara 88 

Verses Written on Seeing Pharamond 88 

Prayer 88 

Song 89 

Friendship 89 

Farewell to Cuba 89 

MRS. JULIA RUSH WARD. 

Marries Samuel Ward, the Banker 90 

Literary Society in New York at thia Period 90 

^*SiJe teperdfje suis perdu" 90 

MRS. LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 

Her Early Life 91 

Publication of her Moral Pieces, m Prose and P'erse 91 

Marries Mr. Charles Sigourney 91 

Review of Trails of ihe Aborigines 91 

Works in Proae and Verse, for Twenty Years 92 

She visits Europe 02 

Review ai Pocahontas 92 

Her Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands, &c 92 

Her Popularity, and Merits as an Author 92 

Mr. Alexander H. Everett's Opinion of her Poems 93 

The Western Emigrant 94 

The Pilgrim Fathers 94 

Winter 95 

Niagara 95 

The Alpine Flowers , 95 

Napoleon's Epitaph 96 

The Death of an Infant 96 

Monody on Mrs. Hemans 97 

The Mother of Washington 97 

The Country Churdt QS 

Solitude 98 

Sitnset on the Allegany 98 

The Indian Girl's Burial 99 

Indian Names. 99 

ABuaerfyona Child's Grave 99 

Monody on the late Daniel WadswortU ]00 

Adoeriisemcnt of a Lost Day 100 

Farewell to a Ru/-at Residence 101 

A Widow at /ler Daughter's Bridal 101 

MRS. KATHARINE A. WARE. 

Edits The Bower of Taste 102 

Residence abroad, and Death, in Paris 102 

Her Power of the Passions, and other Poems 102 

Loss of the Firsi-Jiorn 102 

Madness 103 

A New Year's Wish c 103 

Marks of Time 103 

MRS. JANE L. GRAY. 

Her llesidence on the Forks of the Delaware 104 

James Montgomery's Opinion of a Poem by her 104 

Two Hundred Years Ago 104 

Sabbath Reminiscences 105 

Morn 106 

MRS. SOPHIA L. LITTLE. 

A Daughter of the Jurist and Statesman Ashur Robbins 107 

Notices of het Works 107 

Tbe Poet 107 

1^1071^^ giving 108 

MRS. LYDIA MARIA CHILD. 

One of our nio3t brilliant Prose Writers 110 

Manns amid the Ruins of Carthage liq- 

lAr-es on hearing a Boy mock the Sound of a C/0d;.....„.«_„lIO 



MRS. LOUISA J. HALL. 

Educated by Dr. Park, her Father paoe 111 

Her feeble Constitution m 

Circumstances under which Miriam was written Ill 

Her Joanna of Naples, and other Works lU 

Review of jlZ/rtow, with Extracts 112 

Character of the Work ht 

Justice and Mercy 117 

A Dramatic Fragment .,113 

MRS, ELIZA L. FOLLEN. 

Death of her Husband, Professor Charles Pollen 121 

Her Writings 121 

Sachem's Hill jgl 

Winter Scene in the Country 122 

Evening ,^ ^ ^gj 

MRS. FRANCES H. GREEN. 

The Misfortunes of her Father 123 

She writes a Memoir of Eleanor Elbridge, Ac 123 

The Mechanic, l)y her, commended by Mr. Brownson 1?.3 

Notice of Nanuntenoo 123 

Her Songs of the Winds, and other Poems 123 

Opinions in Philosophy arjd Religion 123 

New England Summer inihe Ancient Time I24 

ji Narragausett Sachem 124 

Sassacus 125 

Song of the North Wind 127 

Song of the East Wind 128 

Song of Maimer 129 

37(e Chickadee's Song 130 

The Ifoney-Bee's Sang 130 

MRS. JESSIE G. MoCARTEE. 

A Descendant of Isabella Graham 131 

Character of her Poems 131 

37(6 Indian Mother's Lament 131 

TJie Eagle of the Falls 134 

Death-Song of Moses 132 

How Beautiful is Sleep 132 

MISS CYNTHIA TAGGART. 

Her interesting History 133 

Letter from Dr. John W. Francis respecting her 133 

Merit of jier Writings 133 

Ode to the Poppy 133 

Invocation l<i Health 134 

Autumn 134 

On a Stoi^m ^ 134 

MRS. FRANCESCA PASCALIS CANFIELD. 

The Scientific Labors of her Father 135 

Dr. Mitchill's Valentine to her 135 

Her Learning and Accomplishments 135 

Unfortunate Marriage, and Death... 13'* 

Verses To Dr. Mitchill 136 

Edith 136 

MISS ELIZABETH EOGART. 

Writings under the Signature of " Estelle" 137 

An Auiumn View,frommy Window 137 

Retrospection 138 

Forgefidness 138 

He Came too Late 138 

MRS. MARY E. BROOKS. 

Marringe with James G. Brooks -..139 

Publishes The Rivals of Este, and other Poems 139 

Death of Mr. Brooks 139 

The Close of the Year 139 

A Pledge to the Dying Year 140 

" Weep not for the Dead" 140 

Dream of Life 140 

MRS. MARGARET ST. LEON LOUD. 

Her Residence in the South Ml 

Mr. Poe's Opinion of her Writings HI 

A Dream of the Lonely Isle 14t 

The Deserted Homestead 142 

Prayer for an Absent Husband 142 

Rest in the Grave 142 

MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. 

Publishes Guido and other Poems 143 

Character of her Tales H3 

Her Nature's Gems, and other VVorKS 143 

Two Portraits, from Life 143 

17te Duke of Reichstadt 144 

Sympathy l->4 

Autum7i Evening. 144 

Peace ^*^ 

TheMoiian Harp 145 

Unrest '^5 

The Old Man's Lament 145 

The American River 145 

The English River — - 1*6 



CONTENTS. 



13 



MBS. EMMA C. EMBURY, (oontinubd.) 

Ballad. PAGE 147 

Cheerfulness 147 

T/ie Willow's Wooer 147 

Madame de Scacl H8 

Heart Qticstioninga 14S 

Never Forget H8 

MISS ELIZABETH MARGARET CHANDLER. 

A Member of tbe Society of Friends 149 

Removal to Miclii^an, ami Death tliere 149 

Her Works 149 

The Devoted. 149 

The Baule.Field. 150 

A Revoluiionari/ Soldier^s Frat/er 150 

The Brandywiiie 151 

Summer Alornlng - - 151 

MISSES LUCRETIA AND MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Tbeir Genius and Interesliog Clianicter 152 

The First Compositions ofLucretia Davidson 152 

Verses on the Grave of Washington 153 

Vioils Canada 153 

, Lines to lier Infant Sister 153 

Wiites .-/mir KItan 153 

Her Death 153 

Memoirs of her by Mr. Morse and Miss Sedgwick 153 

Her Poem addressed to 31 rs. Towusend 153 

To a Star 153 

A Prophecy 154 

Auction FxCraordinary 154 

Address to her Mother 154 

On lite Fear of Madness 155 

Efl'ect of her.DeaUi upon Margaret Davidson - 155 

Margaret's Ed ucaiion 155 

Verses, ^' I would Jiy from the City" 155 

Changes of Residence 155 

Her Death 156 

Lenore to {fie Spirit of Lucretia 156 

Stanzas to her Mother 156 

The Writings of Mrs. Davidson 156 

MRS. MARY E. HEWITT. 

Poems under the Signature of "lone" 157 

Publishes Songs of our Latui, and other Poems 157 

Chtracter of her Poems 157 

17m; Songs of our Land 157 

2Re Two t'oicds 158 

The Axe, f the Settler T...158 

A Thought of the Pilgrims 159 

The City by the Sea 169 

37ic Sunjlowerio the Sun 160 

■■"■Sfte Last CharU of Corinne 160 

Green Places in the City 160 

Cameos 160 

A Yarn 161 

Imitation of Sappho 161 

Love's Pleadmg 162 

The Hearth of Home 162 

The Launch 163 

The Ode of Harold the P'aliaiU 163 

Lay — .■■- . -na ........... .163 

MRS. SUSAN R. A. BARNES. 

Characteristics of her Works 164 

Imalee 164 

The Ai-myofthe Cross 165 

Penitence. 165 

MRS. SARAH HELEN WHIT3IAN. 

Descended from a Companion of Roger Williams 166 

The Career and Death of hei Husband 166 

"B-fi Acquirements, and Writings in Prose 166 

Her Fairy Tales 166 

Remarkable Merita of her Poems 166 

The Sleeping Beauty 187 

Lines written in November 169 

A Still Day in Auttimn 169 

"^ Green and Silvery Spot among the Hills" 170 

The Waking of the Heart 170 

A Day tf the Indian Summer 171 

Tranalatiou of T/'ie Lost Church 172 

The Past 172 

A September Day on the Banks of the Moshassuck 173 

Summer's Invitation to tlie Orphan 173 

Stan-as toiih a Bridal Ring 173 

"She Blooms no more" ...174 

"Dte Mai<len's Dream 174 

Poem before the Rhode Island Hist. Soc, upon iio£-«-7ri»iflmf.. 175 

" Hoto softly comes the Summer Wind" 175 

A Song of Spring 176 

On a Statue of Dauid 176 



MRS. ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 

Her Descent from the Pilgrims paqb 177 

Her Marriage 177 

Circumstances under which she has written 177 

Remarks on T/ie Sinless Child, with Extracts 178 

Her Dramas 179 

Review of IVi^ Rnm an Tribute, with Extracta 180 

Review oi Jacob Lcislcr, a Tragedy 182 

Scene ham Jacob Leisler 183 

Her Prose Works 183 

Writings nnderthe Name of" Ernest Helfenateia" 183 

Her Rank among the FemaJe Poets 1S3 

T/ie Acorn 184 

The Drowned Mariner 186 

To the Hudson 186 

Sonnets: , 187 

I. Poesy 187 

II. The Bard 1S7 

III. An Incident 187 

IV. Tfie Unattained 187 

V. The Wife 167 

VI. Religion 187 

VIL The Dream 187 

VIII. Wayfarers 187 

IX., X. Heloise to Abelard 183 

XI. Despondency.....,^ 188 

XII. Love 188 

XIII. " Look not behind Thee" 183 

XIV. Charity in Despair of Justice 183 

XV. The Great Aim 183 

XVI. Midnight 188 

XVIL Jealousy 189 

Ecce Homo 189 

Ode to Sappho 189 

Love Dead 190 

Stanzas 190 

Endurance 190 

Ministering Spirits 191 

The Recall, oi- Soul Melody 191 

The Water 191 

The Brook. ". 191 

The Country Maiden 192 

The AprU Rain 193 

AUteism 193 

Let Me be a Fantasy 194 

Strength from the Hills 191 

Eros and Anteros - 194 

77te Poet 194 

MRS. E. C. KINNEY. 

Acc'-iunt of her Writings 195 

Characterized, by a Correspondent 195 

To the Eagle 195 

Ode: To the Moon 196 

The Spirit of Song 197 

Extract from Tlie Quakeress Bride 197 

SonJiets: 198 

1. Cultivation 1S8 

II. Encottragement 198 

IlL Fading Autumn 198 

IV. A Winter Night 198 

V. Toihe Greek Slave 198 

VI. To Arabella 108 

Tlie Woodman _ 198 

MRS. ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 

Het -Domestic Connexions 199 

Translates Euphemia nf Messina 199 

Production of her Tc7-esa Contarini 199 

Papers in the Reviews 199 

^^^HeTCharactersofSchUlcr,Joanna<if Sicily, and other Works. .199 

Characteristica of her Poema - 199 

Snsquehanntih 200 

Lake Ontarw 201 

Tlie Delaware Water-Gap 201 

Insensibility 201 

Love, in Youth and Age 201 

SodusBay 203 

"O'er (/«r Wild Waste-' 202 

Song. 2K 

The old Love 2")3 

The Sea-Kings 

Venice - 

SonneU .-.. 

I. Mary Magdalen 

IL Tfie GoodShepherd 204 

III. "Oh, Weary Heart" 204 

"Abide with IV 204 

Tlte Persecuted 204 . 

A Dirge 

Tlie Burial "-- 



..204 
..204 



..205 

..206 



14 



CONTENTS. 



MRS. JULIA H. SCOTT. 

Her Early Life and Beautiful CharRCter. . — paob 206 

Her Marriage, and Death .......206 

Her Poems piibliahed by Miss Edgarton 206 

'Flie Two Graves. 206 

Ml/ Child 207 

Invocation Co Poetry - - - 207 

MRS. ANNA PEYRE DINNIES. 

Mra. H.ile's Account oClier Marriage - 20S 

She writes under tlie Siitnature of " Moina" 208 

Publishes The Floral Year 208 

Wedded Love 208 

The nye 208 

Emb'ems. 209 

•I7ie True Ballad of a Wanderer 209 

Love\ Messengers 209 

MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS. 

The Spirit and Popularity of her Pnise Writings 210 

T!ie Old AppteTi-ee. 210 

MRS. A. R. ST. JOHN. 

Extent of her Productions -.211 

Medttsa.Jrum an Antiqne Cameo 2J1 

MRS. SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH. 

A Granddaughter of General Hull 212 

Marringe with Samuel Jenks Smith 312 

Changes of Residence, and Literary Activity 212 

Her Death, and the Character of her Poems 212 

The Huma 212 

miite Roses 212 

Stan-.as 213 

The Fall of Warsaw ,....213 

MRS. SOPHIA HELEN OLIVER. 

Her Poems 214 

" I mark the Hours that Shins'" 314 

Tt.e Cloud Ship 214 

The Shadows 215 

Ministeri/ig Spirits ■ 215 

MISS MARY E. LEE. 

Her B.illads and other Poems - 216 

The Pods ,. 216 

An Eastern Love-Song 216 

The Last Place of Sleep 216 

MRS. CATHERINE H. ESLING. 

"Brother, Come Home" 217 

"He was our Faiher^s Darling" ...217 

MRS. CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 

Her Early Education 218 

Acquaintance with Foreign Literatures 218 

Piaadvanlageous Channels of Publication — 218 

The Blind Girl 218 

J/ifideliti/ and Religion 219 

T/ie Valley of Peace 219 

The Bo'j and his Angel -^ 220 

The Lady of Lurlei Sil 

The Wife's Remonstrance 221 

My Slerping Children 222 

Lake Mahnpac 223 

Tlie Wai-rior's Dirge 234 

Reunion 224 

Pebbles 224 

MRS. MARGARET L. BAILEY. 

Her Editorial Labors 225 

Her Poems a 226 

Life's Changes 22.'! 

TJie Pauper Child's Btrrial 22.'i 

Memories ...226 

Endurance 226 

Duty and Reward 226 

MRS. LAURA M. THURSTON. 

Becomes a Teacher in Indiana 227 

Marriage, and Death 227 

Poems under the Signature of "Viola" 227 

" 'Die Green HUls of my Fatherland" 227 

Crossing the Alleganies 227 

MISS MARTHA DAY. 

Her Literary Remaina, published by Professor Kingsley 228 

Hymn , 228 

Lines an Psalm CU. A 238 

MISS MARY ANN HANHER DODD. 

Her Literary Associations - ...229 

Publication of her Poems 229 

Lament 229 

The Mourner 229 

To a Cricket 230 

The Dreamer 230 

Tlie Dove's Visit..'. 231 

Twilight - 231 



MISS ANNE C. LYNCH. 

Hei Fallier one of the United Irishmen paoi 232 

Her Education ^ 233 

Literary Soirees 233 

Characteristics of her Poema 232 

The Ideal 233 

The Ideal Found 233 

The Image Broken _ 233 

Tlie Battle of Life 234 

TiiQughisin a Library 2.35 

Hagar 2.35 

To the Memory of Channing _ 235 

A Thoiiglii by the Seashore 236 

The Dumb Creation 236 

The Wounded Vulture 236 

Eros 237 

To ,in Obscurity. _ 237 

To , with Flotvers 237 

On a Picture of Harvey Birch 237 

Sonnets : „ „ 238 

I. iMve 238 

11. The Lake and the Star 238 

III. A Remembrance 238 

IV. The Sun and Storm 238 

V. To 238 

VI. The Honetj-Bee 238 

VII. Aspiration 238 

VIII. To the Savior 338 

IX. Faith 239 

Bones wi the Desert 239 

Christ Betrayed 239 

T/ie Wasted Fountains 240 

Paul Preaching at Athens ...........240 

MRS. EMILY JUDSON. 

Her Writings under the Pseudonym of" Fanny Forester" 241 

Publication of Alderbrook 241 

Marriage to the Missionary Judson 241 

Goes to India 243 

Her Astaroga, the Maid of the Rock, in Four Cantos -.243 

The Weaver 242 

Ministering Angels 243 

To my Mother 243 

To Spring 244 

Death 244 

Lig/us and Shades 244 

Clinging to Earth 245 

Aspiring to Heaven _ ...245 

The Buds of the Saranac 245 

My Bird 345 

MRS. ELIZABETH JESUP EAMES. 

Contributions to the Periodicals 2'16 

Crowning of Petrarch 246 

TJie Death of Pan 247 

Cleopatra 247 

My Mother 247 

Sonnets: 248 

I. Milton 248 

II. Dryden 248 

III. Addison 248 

[V. Tasso —.248 

v., VI. T7ie A utJwr of " T7ie Sinless Child'* 248 

Vn. The Past 248 

VIIL Diem Perdidi 249 

IX., X. Books 249 

On the Picture of a Depdrted Poetess 249 

Charity 249 

Flowers in a Sick-Room .j. 249 

MRS. EMELINE S. SMITH. 

Publication of TVii; Fairy's Search, and other Poems -250 

Hymn to the Deity, in the Contemplation of Nature 250 

"We've had our Sliare of Bliss, Beloved" 250 

MISS S. MARGARK-T FULLER 

Her Rank nmony; the Writers of her Sex 251 

Governor Everett receiving tlie Indian Chiefs, iStc 251 

T}ie Sacred Marriage 252 

\ Sonnets: 252 

^"^ I. Orpheus 253 

II. Instrumental Music 253 

III. Beethoven 263 

IV. Mozart 253 

V. To Washington Allston's Picture, " The Bride" 253 

To Edith, on her Birthday 253 

Lines writiejl in Illinois ....253 

On Leaving the West 254 

Ganymede to his Eagle 2i'i4 

Life a Temple 255 

Encouragement 255 

Gunhilda 363 



CONTENTS. 



15 



MKS. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON. 

Her Early History PAoa 256 

Anecdote of Mrs. Peirson and Ttiaddeus Stevens .....256 

Her Forest Mimtrd, and Forest Leaves 256 

Ml/ Song 256 

Ml/ Muse 257 

To an jEo/ian Hafp 267 

To l/te Wood Robin 258 

Tlie WUdwood Home SfiS 

IsabeUa _..25a 

Sunset in the Forest ., 259 

The last Pale Floviers 259 

To the Woods 259 

MRS. JANE TAYLOE WORTHINGTON. 

Her Connexions in Virginia 260 

Marr'iage, Writinga, Dealli 260 

To the Feuk <if Otter 260 

Lines, to One who \tnH understand Tfiem - 260 

Moonlight on the Grave ......261 

The Child's Giave 261 

The Poor 261 

Sleep 262 

To Ihulifiht 262 

37i« Withered Leaves 262 

MRS. SARAH ANNA LEWIS. 

PublLsliea Records of the Heart 263 

T/ie Forsaken, by her, compareJ wjtL a Poem by MotLerwell..263 

Review of her Child oj" the Sea, with Extracts 264 

Extract from Isabelle,or the Broken Heart ...265 

Lamem of La Vega, in Captivity 266 

Una 266 

Tlte Dead 266 

MRS. ANNA CORA MOWATT. 

Notice of Iier Fatlier 267 

Her Birth and Education, abroad. 267 

Early Predilection for the Stage 267 

Story of lier Marriage 267 

Publishes Pelat/o, or ifie Caoern ofCovadonga 267 

Residence in Europe 267 

Publishes Eveli/n, Fashion, and other Works 267 

Het ThPHtrJcal Career 267 

Visit to England 268 

The Raising of Jairtts' Daughter 268 

M</ Life 269 

Love 269 

Time. 269 

Thy Wdl be done 269 

On a Lock of my Mother^ s Hair 269 

MRS. MARY NOEL MEIGS, (MoDONALD.) 

Publishes Poems by M. N. M. 270 

June 270 

Tlie Spells of Memory 271 

ti'ive's Aspirations — ....271 

MRS. FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 

Literary Abilities in her Family ..........272 

Writings under the Signature of" Florence".. 272 

Marriage to Mr. Osgood the Painter 272 

Refidence in London 273 

Publishes // Wreath of Wild Flotaert from New England 272 

Her later Works .- 272 

Her Genius 273 

Farewell to a Happy Day ._ 273 

"Had we but met" _ 273 

Tathe :^irU of Poetry 274 

Reflections 274 

Lenore 274 

T/if Cocoa-NtU Tree 275 

A Mother's Prayer in Illness 275 

Little Children 276 

A Sermon 276 

To a Child Playing with a Watdi 276 

Labor 277 

Garden Gossip 277 

3'o a Friend 277 

JSuryclice 278 

Lady Jane 278 

Ida's Farewell _ 279 

To a Dear little Tniant,wko wouldn't come Home... 279 

The Unexpected Declaration 279 

Stanzas fir Mitsic 230 

77te Flovjcr LoveLetter 280 

A Weed 281 

To Sleep 381 

Silent Love .231 

Beauty's Prayer 281 

Dream-Music, or Oie Spii-it FhUe 232 

To my Pen 283 

Neio England's Mountain-Child 283 

Ashes of Roses - ...284 

Song," i'es, lower to the level" 2S5 



MRS. FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD, Coontinued.) 

The Soul's Lament Jbr Home pahe 265 

Bianca , 28fi 

Music. 285 

Song, "She loves Him yet" ...286 

No! 286 

Song, " Should all who throng" 286 

"Bois Tan Sa7ig, Beaumanoir" 286 

Caprice , 287 

Song, " I loved an Ideal'' ...287 

Aspirations _ 287 

MISS LUCY HOOPER. 

Writings under the Signature of "L. H." 288 

Lines written on visiting Newburyport .....288 

Her Works in Prose 1 ..289 

Lettei upon her Death, from Dr. John W. Francis ...289 

Poem on the same Subject, by J. G. Whittier 2S9 

Sonnet to her Memory, by H. T. Tuckerman 290 

Publication of her Literary Remains 290 

The Summons 0/ Death 291 

Time, Faith, Energy 291 

Last Hours of a Young Poetess ...292 

The Turquoise Ring 293 

" Give me Armor of Prnqf" 293 

The Cavalia's last Hours 294 

The Daughter of Herodias 294 

Evening Thoughts. 294 

Lines 295 

The Old Days we Remember 295 

Lines suggested by a Scene in "Master Humphrey's Clock" 296 

Life and Death 296 

Legends of Flowers 297 

Osceola' ...297 

MRS. SARAH EDGARTON MAYO. 

Her Life and Writings 29S 

The Supremacy of God 298 

The last Lay 299 

The Beggar's Death-Scene 300 

Types of Heaven 300 

T/te Shadow Child 300 

Udollo 301 

Crossing the Moor 302 

MISS SARAH L. JACOBS. 

The Changeless World 303 

Benedetta 304 

A Vesper. 304 

"UhiAmor, Ibi Fides" 305 

MRS. LUELLA J. B. CASE. 

The Indian Relic 308 

Energy in Adversity - 306 

La Revenante " .- 307 

ADeajh-Scene 307 

Death leading Age to Repose 307 

MRS. SARAH T. BOLTON. 

Lines suggested by an Anecdote of S. F. B.Morse 308 

Tlie Spi/Ht of Tittth 306 

Kentucky's Dead - ..309 

MISS HANNAH J. WOODMAN. 

The Annunciation 310 

" W^ien will thou love Me ?" 310 

MISS SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 

Compared with James Nack - - 311 

Variety of her Abilitiea 311 

Enne}-slie 313 

Gejiius.^ 313 

My Sister 314 

ITie Sea-Sfiell 316 

MRS. REBECCA S. NICHOLS. 

Publishes Bemice, and other Poems 316 

To my Boy in Heaven 316 

My Sister Ellen 317 

Farewell of the Soul to the Body 317 

Lament of the Old Tear,. 318 

Tlie Isle of Dreams 318 

77ti: Shadow 319 

Little Nell 319 

The little Flock 320 

Musings 320 

MRS. JULIA WARD HOWE. 

Extract from the LifeofSchlesinger, by her Brother, Sam. Ward. 321 

The Beauty of her Poems 321 

The Burial nfSchlesinger. 321 

Wordsworth 322 

Woman 323 

To a Beautiful Staitte 323 

Waning 323 

Lees from the Cup of Life — 32.1 

" Speak, for tliy Strvant heareth" .324 

A Mother's Fears — 33 



16 



CONTENTS. 



MRS. AMELIA E. WELBY. 

Writings under Uie Signature of "Amelia" paob 3-25 

PublicHtion of her Poems 325 

Tbeir Clinrncter ■^2.5 

TVie Rainbojo 325 

Ful^it Eloquence 326 

Oil Entering the Mammoth Cave 327 

Hopeless Love 32S 

The Old Maid 328 

Melodia 329 

To a Seri-SI>ell 329 

Tfte Last Interview 3;50 

My Si/fte}'s 330 

Mushiffs 3;Jl 

T/te Little Step Son 331 

T/te Presence of God 332 

MRS. CATH. WARFIELD AND MRS. ELEANOR LEE. 

17ie Wife of Leon, &;c., by " Two Sisters of llie West" 333 

The Indian Chamber, and other Poems 333 

Tlieee Works criticiseJ 333 

Tbeir otber Writings 333 

Remorse 334 

Death on the Prairie 335 

Legend of the Indian Chamber 337 

"She comes to Me" 3:19 

" I walk in Dreams oj Poetrti" 340 

Jiegret - 340 

Son^," I never knew how dear Thoutven" 341 

The Bird of Washington 341 

The Deserted Hoitse 342 

MISS SUSAN PINDAR. 

Accounlofher Writings 343 

l^ie Spirit.- Mother 343 

77je Lady Leonore - 343 

Lauralie...... ••... — .. .-• — ...344 

Greemvood - 345 

Thoughts in Spring-Time 345 

MISS CAROLINE MAY. 

Her Poems, &c 346 

The Sabbath of the Year 346 

To a Student 346 

Sonnets: 347 

I. On a warm November Day 347 

IL On the Approach oj Winter 347 

III. Thougiir 347 

IV. Hope 347 

V. Memory 347 

Lilies 347 

To Nature 348 

The Sun 3-IS 

MRS. EMILY NEAL. 

Writes under tbe Sifinature of "Alice G. Lee" 349 

EiJits Neat's Saturday Gazette 349 

The Bride's Confession 349 

Midnight and Daybreak 349 

T/ie Church 349 

Blind 350 

A Memory - 351 

MRS. CAROLINE H. CHANDLER. 

To my Brother 353 

MRS. ELIZA L. SPROAT. 

27«f Prhoner's Child 353 

A Few Stray Siinbeatns Sh5 

Guonare 354 

MRS. HARRIET LISZT, tWINSLOW.) 

Why this Longing? 354 

MRS. JULIET H. L. CAMPBELL. 

Her Early Culture 355 

Dreams 355 

Night- Elnoming Floivers - 356 

A Story of Sunrise 366 

MISS ELISE JUSTINE BAYARD. 

Bmnofan Historical Family 357 

Her Wrilinga, and her Abilities , ..357 

A Fimeral Chant for the Old Year 357 

Onjindingthe Key of an Old Piano 35S 

Spii'itual Beauty 353 

The Sea and the Sovereign - 359 

Warship 359 

MISS LUCY LARCOM. 

A Factory Girl at Lowell 360 

Extract from J. G. Wbiltier, respecting lier 360 

Elhhaand the Angel 360 

Tlie Burning Prairie 361 

"EDITH MAY." 

Sbe writes under a Nomme de Plume.. 3fi3 

Tbe Character of ber Genius ^ 362 

Count Julio ...362 



"EDITH MAY," (contiwufd.) 

A Storm at Tiiiilighi paoe 364 

Juliette 364 

Summer 366 

A Forest Scene 366 

A Poet's Love 367 

A Song for Autumn 367 

A True Story of a Fawn 367 

MISSES FRANCES A. AND METTA V. FULLER. 

Their Writings for tbe " Home Journal" 368 

(I.) A Sever;/ 368 

The Old Man's Favorite 369 

(II.) The Poftbofs Song .369 

Midnight 370 

The SiUnt Ship 370 

Tiie Spirit of my Song 371 

MISSES ALICE AND PHtEBE CARET. 

Circumstances utifavorahie to tbeir Development ...373 

Extract from a Letter by Alice Carey 372 

Poems of Alice and Phcebe Carey contrasted 372 

(].) Tlie Handmaid 373 

Hymn -f the New Man 373 

Palestine 373 

Old Stones 373 

Pictures of Memory 374 

The Two Missionai-ies -374 

Visions of Ligia 374 

Heliia 375 

The Time to be 375 

Lucy 375 

A Legend of &. Mary's 376 

Watching 376 

An Evening Tale 377 

George Burroughs 377 

Lights nf Geni'iF 378 

Death'* Ferryman 378 

Sailor's Song: 378 

To the Evening Zephyr 37d 

Musings by Tiiree Graves 379 

(IL) The Lovers 380 

Bearing Life's Burdens 380 

Jicsolves 381 

Light in Darkness 381 

The Wife of Bessieres 381 

77ie Follmcersof Christ 382 

Sympathy 3S3 

Song nf the Heart 383 

The Pi iKon<:r's Last Night 3S3 

Memories : 384 

Equal 10 Either Fortune 334 

Coming Home 384 

Jhe ChrUtian Woman 385 

Death-Scene 385 

Love at the Grave 386 

MISS MARY LOCKHART LAWSON. 

Lncien Bonapaite'a Opinion ofber Fatber 386 

Her Engliab and Scottish Poems 386 

The Banished Lover 386 

Believe it 386 

The Haunted Heart 387 

Evening Tlioughts , 387 

MRS. MARIA LOWELL. 

Original and Translated Poems 339 

Jes^ts and the Dove 389 

The Maiden's Harvest 3S9 

Song, " Oh, Bird, thnu dartest to the Sun" 3S9 

T/ie Morning-Glory 389 

MISS SARA JANE CLARKE. 

Early Residence in Roebestpr 390 

Writin2s under Die Signature of "Grace Greenwood" 390 

Her Genius 390 

Ariadne ^ 391 

Dreutns 393 

Itlnminntion 393 

The Last Gift 393 

A Lover to his Faithless Mistress 394 

Herveyto Ni a 394 

" Canst Thou Forget?" 395 

Invocation to Mother Earth 395 

"Tfierewasa Rose" 395 

The Sculptor's Love 396 

A Dream 396 

Darkened Hours 397 

Love and Daring 398 

A Morning Ride 393 

MISS ANNE H. PHILLIPS. 

Writes undei; tbe Name of" Helen Irving" 399 

Love and Fame 599 

Nina to Riemi 399 



ANNE BRADSTREET. 



In the works of Mrs. Anne Bradstkeet, 
wife of one and daughterof another of the ear- 
ly governors of Massachusetts, we have illus- 
trations of a genius suitable to grace a dis- 
tant province while the splendid creations 
of Spenser and Shakspere were delighting 
the metropolis. A comparison of the pro- 
ductions of this celebrated person with those 
of Lady Juliana Berners, Elizabeth Melvill, 
the Countess of Pembroke, and her other pred- 
ecessors or contemporaries, will convmce the 
judicious critic that she was superior to any 
poet of her sex who wrote in the English 
language before the close of the seventeenth 
century. 

She was bom in 1613, while her father, 
Thomas Dudley — who had been educated in 
the family of the Earl of Northampton, and 
had served creditably with the army in Flan- 
ders — was steward to the Earl of Lincoln, in 
which situation he remained with a brief in- 
terruption from twelve to sixteen years, and 
in which he appears to have been succeeded 
by Mr. Simon Bradstreet, of Emanuel Col- 
lege — subsequently for a short time steward 
to the Countess of Warwick — who in 1629 
married the future poetess, then about six- 
teen years of age, and in the following year 
came with the Dudley family and other non- 
conformists to New England. 

It does not appear that Mrs. Bradstreet 
had written anything, which has been print- 
ed, before her arrival in America. Here was 
completed her education, under the care of her 
husband, and his friends among the learned 
men who then presided over the society of 
Cambridge and Boston ; and by her experi- 
ence and observation in this country nearly 
all her poems seem to have been suggested. 
The first collection of them was printed at 
Boston, in -1640, under the title of "Several 
Poems, compiled with great variety of Wit 
and Learning, full of delight ; wherein espe- 
cially is contained a corapleat Discourse and 
Description of the Four Elements, Constitu- 
tions, Ages of Man, and Seasons of the Year, 
together with an exact Epitome of the Three 
First Monarchies, viz., the Assyrian, Persian, 



and Grecian ; and the beginning of the Roman 
Commonwealth to the end of their last King ; 
with divers other Pleasant and Serious Po- 
ems : By a Gentlewoman of New England." 
In 1650 this volume was reprinted in Lon- 
don, with the additional title of " The Tenth 
Muse, lately sprung up in America ;" and in 
1678 a second American edition came from 
the press of John Foster, of Boston, " cor- 
rected by the author, and enlarged by the 
addition of several other poems found among 
her papers after her death." 

The writer of the preface to the first edi- 
tion, who was probably her brother-in-law, 
John Woodbridge, of Andover, says : " Had 
I opporttmity but to borrow some of the au- 
thor's wit, 'tis possible I might so trim this 
curious work with such quaint expressions 
as that the preface might bespeak thy fiir- 
ther perusal ; but I fear 'twill be a shame for 
a man that can speak so little, to be seen in 
the titlepage of .this woman's book, lest by 
comparing the one with the other the reader 
should pass his sentence that it is the gift of 
the woman not only to speak most but to 
speak best. I shall have therefore to com- 
mend that, which with any ingenious reader 
will too much commend the author, tmless 
men turn more peevish than women and 
envy the inferior sex. I doubt not but the 
reader will quickly find more than I can say, 
and the worst eifect of his reading will be un- 
belief, which will make him question wheth- 
er it can be a woman's work, and ask, ' Is 
it possible V If any do, take this as an an- 
swer, from him that dares avow it: It is the 
work of a woman, honbred and esteemed 
where she lives, for her gracious demeanor, 
her eminent parts, her pious conversation, 
her courteous disposition, her exact dili- 
gence in her place, and discreet managing 
of her family occasions ; and more than so, 
these poems are the fruit but of some few 
hours, curtailed from her sleep and other re- 
freshments. . . . This only I shall annex : I 
fear the displeasure of no person in publish- 
ing these poems, but the author, without 
whose knowledge and contrary to whose ex- 



18 



ANNE BRADSTREET. 



pectation I have presumed to bring to pub- 
lic view what she resolved in such a manner 
should never see the sun." 

It is evident, from some lines upon it by- 
Mrs. Bradstreet, that Spenser's Faery Queen 
was not unknown in Massachusetts, but the 
fashionable poet of that period was Du Bar- 
tas,* translations of whose works, in cum- 
brous quartos and folios, were read by every 
person in the country pretending to taste or 
piety, though they seem to have evinced little 
genius and still less religion. Among the 
verses prefixed to Mrs. Bradstreet's volume 
are some by Nathaniel Ward, of Ipswich, 
the witty author of The Simple Cobbler of 
Agawam, who, puzzled by a comparison of 
his heroine with the recognised model of 
the age, declares that — 
Mercmy showed Apollo Bartas' book, 
Minerva this, and wished him well to look 
And tell uprightly which did which excel ; 
He viewed and viewed, and vowed he could not tell. 

But Mrs. Bradstreet herself was more mod- 
est, and, in the prologue to one of her longer 
pieces, says — 

But when my wondering eyes and envious heart 
Great Bartas' sugai'ed lines do but read o'er. 

Fool ! I do grudge the muses did not part 
'Twixt him and me their overfluent store. 

A Bai'tas can do what a Bartas will — 

But simple I, according to my skill. 

The " copies of verses" which are prefixed 
to these poems are curious, not only as indi- 
cating the position of the author and her as- 
sociations, but as illustrative of the taste and 
culture of the time in the city which still 
claims to be our literary capital. Benjamin 
Woodbridge, the first graduate of Harvard 
college, exclaims — 

Now I believe Tradition, which doth call 
The muses, virtues, graces, females all ; 
Only they are not nine, eleven, nor three — 
Our authoress proves them but one unity. 

And further on, to his own sex — 

In your own arts confess yourselves outdone — 
The moon doth totally eclipse the sun : 
Not with her sable mantle muffling him. 
But her bright silver makes his gold look dim. 

* Willinm de Salluste du Bartas, ttie most celebrated 
French poet of his age, ivas born in 1544, and died in 
1590. He was the friend and companionin-arms of 
Henri IV., and wrote a canticle upon his victory of Yvri. 
His works were nearly all, by various hands, translated 
into English, and one of them, " Gulielmi Sallustl Bartas- 
sij, Hebdomas,"etc., passed through more than thirty edi- 
tions in six years. The translation which was probably 
best known in this counti-y is that of Sylvester, pubhshed 
in Loudon, in a thick folio, in 1632. 



The learned and pious Jolm Norton, who 
declared this " peerless gentlewoman" to be 
"the mirror of her age and glory of her sex," 
said in a funeral ode that could Virgil hear 
her works he would condemn Ms own to the 
fire, and that — 

Praise her who list, yet he shall be a debtor. 
For ai't ne'er feigned, nor nature formed, a better ; 
Her virtues were so great, that they do raise 
A work to trouble Fame, astonish Praise ; 
When, as her name doth but salute the ear, 
Men think that they Perfection's abstract hear. 
Her breast was a brave palace, a broad street, 
Where all heroic, ample thoughts did meet ; 
Where Nature such a tenement had ta'en 
That other souls to hers dwelt in a lane. 
Beneath her feet pale Envy bites the chain. 
And poisoned Malice whets her sting in vain. 
Let every laurel, every myrtle bough. 
Be stripped for leaves t' adorn and load her brow : 
Victorious wreaths, which, for they never fade. 
Wise elder times for kings and poets made. 
Let not her happy memory e'er lack 
Its worth in Fame's eternal almanac. 
Which none shall read but straight their loss deplore 
And blame their fates they were not bom before. 
Do not old men rejoice their dates did last, 
And hifants too that theirs did make such haste, 
In such a welcome time to bring them forth 
That they might be a witness to her worth ^ 

Dr. Cotton Mather in the Magnalia alludes 
to her works as a " monument to her mem- 
ory beyond the stateliest marble;" and John 
Rogers, one of the presidents of Harvard col- 
lege, addressed to her one of the finest poems 
written in this country before the Revolution, 
in which he says : — 

Your only hand those poesies did compose ; [flow ; 

Your head, the source whence all those springs did 
Your voice, whence change's sweetest notes arose ; 

Your feet, that kept the dance alone, I trow ; 
Then veil your bonnets, poetasters, all : 
Strike lower amain, and at these humbly fall, 
And deem yourselves advanced to be her pedestal. 

Should all \vith lowly congees laurels bring. 

Waste Flora's magazine to iind a wreath. 
Or Pineus' banks, 'twere too mean offering. 
Your muse a fairer garland doth bequeath 
To guard your fairer front ; here 't is your name 
Shall stand immarbled ; this — your little frame — 
Shall great Colossus be to your eternal fame. 

These praises run into hyperbole, and prove, 
perhaps, that their authors were more gal- 
lant than critical ; but we perceive from Mrs. 
Bradstreet's poems that they are not desti- 
tute of imagination, and that she was thor- 
oughly instructed in the best learning of her 
age ; and from the general and profound re- 
gret manifested on the occasion of her death, 



ANNE BRADSTREET. 



19 



we may believe she was personally deserv- 
ing of unusual respect. 

Her husband was frequently absent from 
his home, upon oflScial duties, and several 
poems which she addressed to him in these 
periods have the fervor and simplicity of the 
sincerest passion. In one of them she says : 
If ever two were one, then surely we ; 
I f ever man were loved by wife, then thee ; 
If ever wife were happy in a man. 
Compare with me, ye women, if ye can. 

In another, apostrophizing the sun : 
Phoebus, make haste — the day 's too long — begone ! 
The silent night's the fittest time for moan. 
But stay, this once — unto my suit give ear — 
And tell my griefs in either hemisphere : 
If m thy swift career thou canst make stay, 
I crave this boon, this errand, by the way : 
Commend me to the man, more loved than life : 
Show him the sorrows of his widowed wife ; 
And if he love, how can he there abide ? 
Mv mterest 's more than all the world beside. . . . 
Tell him the countless steps that thou dost trace 
That once a day thy spouse thou mayst embrace, 
And when thou canst not meet by loving mouth, 
Thy rays afar salute her from the south ; 
But for one month, I see no day, poor soul ! 
Like those far situate beneath the pole. 
Which day by day long wait for thy arise — ■ 

how they joy when thou dost Ught the skies ! 
Tell him I would say more, but can not well ; 
Oppressid minds abruptest tales do tell. 

Now part with double speed, mark what I say. 
By all our loves conjure him not to stay ! 

In the prospect of death : 
How soon, my dear, death may my steps attend, 
How soon 't may be thy lot to lose thy friend, 
We both are ignorant ; yet love bids me 
These farewell lines to recommend to thee, 
That when that knot's untied that made us one, 

1 may seem thine, who in effect am none. 
And if I see not half my days that's due. 
What Nature would, God grant to yours and you ; 
The many faults that well you know I have. 
Let be interred in my obhvious grave ; 

If any worth or virtue is in me. 

Let that live freshly in my memory ; 

And when thou feel'st no grief, as I no harms, 

Yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms ; 

And when thy loss shaU be repaid, with gains, 

Look to my little babes, my dear remains, 



And if thou lovest thyself or lovest me. 
These oh protect from stepdame's injury ! 
And if chance to thine eyes doth bring this verse, 
With some sad sighs honor my absent hearse. 
And kiss this paper, for thy love's dear sake. 
Who with salt tears this last farewell doth take. 

Some of her elegies are marked by similar 
beauties — as this, upon a grandchild who 
died in 1665:— 
Farewell, dear child, my heart's too much content, 

Farewell, sweet babe, the pleasure of mine eye. 
Farewell, fair flower, that for a space was lent, 

Then ta'en away into eternity. 
Blest babe, why should I once bewail thy fate. 
Or sigh, the days so soon were terminate, 
Sith thou art settled in an everlasturg state f 

By nature, trees do rot when they are grown. 

And plums and apples thoroughly ripe do fall, 
And com and grass are in their season mown. 

And time brings down what is both strong and tall. 
But plants new set, to be eradicate. 
And buds new blown, to have so short a date. 
Is by His hand alone, that nature guides, and fate. 

And some verses upon the death of a daugh- 
ter-in-law, in 1669, from which the follow- 
ing is an extract : — 
And live I still, to see relations gone, 
And yet sur\'ive, to sound this wailing tone ? 
Ah, wo is me, to write thy funeral song 
Who might in reason yet have lived so long ! 
I saw the branches lopped, the tree now fall ; 
I stood so nigh, it crushed me down withal ; 
My bruised heart hes sobbing at the root. 
That thou, dear son, hast lost both tree and fruit ; 
Thou, then on seas, sailing on foreign coast. 
Wast ignorant what riches thou hadst lost. 
But oh, too soon those heavy tidings fly. 
To strike thee with amazing misery ! 

Mrs. Bradstreet died on the IBsh of Septem- 
ber, 1672, in the sixtieth year of her age. 
Her husband afterward married a sister of 
Sir George Dunning, and lived to be called 
the Nestor of New England, dying at Salem 
in 1697, when he was nearly a century old. 
Many of Mrs. Bradstreet's descendants 
have been conspicuous for their abilities. 
Among them is the noble poet Dana, who 
traces his lineage through one of the signers 
of the Declaration of Independence. 



FROM THE PROLOGUE TO THE FOUR 
ELEMENTS. 

I A5I obnoxious to each carping tongue 
That says my hand a needle better tits ; 

A poet's pen all scorn I should thus wrong. 
For such despite they cast on female wits ; 



If what I do prove well, it won't advance — 
They'll say. It's stolen, or else it was by chance. 

But sure, the antique Greeks were far more mild ; 

Else of our sex why feigned they those Nine, 
And Poesy made Calliops's own child? 

So, 'mongst the rest, they placed the arts divine. 



20 



ANNE BRADSTREET. 



But this weak knot they will full soon untie — 
The Greeks did naught but play the fool and lie. 

Let Greeks be Greeks, and women what they are ; 

Men have precedency, and still excel ; 
It is but Tain unjustly to wage war, 

Men can do best, and women know it well ; 
Pre-eminence in each and all is yours, 
Yet grant some small acknowledgment of ours. 

And oh, ye high-flown quills that soar the skies. 
And ever with yom: prey still catch your praise, 

If e'er you deign these lowly lines your eyes. 
Give thyme or parsley wreath: I ask no bays ; 

This mean and unrefined ore of mine 

Will make your glistering gold but more to shine. 



EXTRACT FROM CONTEMPLATIONS. 

Undeh the cooling shadow of a stately elm, 

Close sat I by a goodly river's side. 
Where gliding streams the rocks did overwhelm ; 

A lonely place, with pleasures dignified. 
I, once that loved the shady woods so well, 
Now thought the rivers did the trees excel, [dwell. 
And if the sun would ever shine, there woidd I 

While on the stealing stream I fixed mine eye. 
Which to the longed-for ocean held its course, 

I marked nor crooks nor rubs that there did lie. 
Could hinder aught, but still augment its force. 

" happy flood," quoth I, " that holdst thy race 

Till thou arrive at thy beloved place, 

Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace. 

" Nor is 't enough that thou alone may'st slide. 
But hundred brooks in thy clear waves do meet : 

So hand in hand along with thee they glide 
To Thetis' house, where all embrace and greet. 

Thou emblem true of what I count the best — 

could I leave my rivulets to rest ! 

So may we press to that vast mansion ever blest. 

" Ye fish which in this liquid region 'bide, 

That for each seajon have your habitation, 
Now salt, now fresh, when you think best to glide. 

To unknown coasts to give a visitation, 
In lakes and ponds you leave your numerous fry : 
So Natm'e taught, and yet you kjiow not why — 
You wat'ry folk that know not your fehcity !" 

Look how the wantons frisk to taste the air. 

Then to the colder bottom straight they dive, 
Eftsoon to Neptune's glassy hall repair 
To see what trade the gi-eat ones there do drive. 
Who forage o'er the spacious sea-green field. 
And take their trembling prey before it yield, 
Whose armor is their scales, their spreading fins 
their shield. 

While musing thus with contemplation fed. 
And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain, 

The sweet tongued Philomel perched o'er my head. 
And chanted forth a most melodious strain, 



Which rapt me so with wonder and delight, 
I judged my healing better than my sight, 
And wished me wings with her a while to take 
my flight. 

" merry bird," said I, " that fears no snares ; 

That neither toils nor hoards up in thy bam ; 
Feels no sad thoughts, nor 'cruciating cares 

To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm : 
Thy clothes ne'er wear, thy meat is everywhere. 
Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water clear, [fear. 
Remmds not what is past, nor what's to come dost 

" The dawning mom with songs thou dost prevent* 

Sets hundred notes unto thy feathered crew ; 
So each one tunes his pretty instrument, 
And warbling out the old, begins anew, 
And thus they pass their youth in summer season, 
Then follow thee into a better region. 
Where winter's never felt by that sweet airy legion." 

Man's at the best a creature frail and vain, 

In knowledge ignorant, in strength but weak ; 
Subject to son'ows, losses, sickness, pain. 

Each storm his state, his mind, his body break : 
From some of these he never finds cessation, 
But day or night, within, without, vexation. 
Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, 
near'st relations. 

And yet this sinful creature, frail and vain. 

This lump of ^vretchedness, of sin and sorrow, 
This weather-beaten vessel racked with pain, 
Joys not in hope of an eternal morrow ; 
Nor all his losses, crosses, and vexation, 
In weight, in frequency, and long duration. 
Can make hun deeply groan for that divine trans- 
lation. 

The mariner that on smooth waves doth glide. 
Sings merrily, and steers his bark with ease. 
As if he had command of wind and tide. 

And were become great master of the seas ; 
But suddenly a storm spoils all the sport, 
And makes him long for a more quiet port, 
Which 'gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort. 

So he that saileth in this world of pleasure. 

Feeding on sweets, that never bit of the sour, 
That's full of friends, of honor, and of treasure — 
Fond fool ! he takes this earth e'en for heaven's 
bower. 
But sad affliction comes, and makes him see 
Here's neither honor, wealth, nor safety : 
Only above is found all with security. 

Time, the fatal wrack of mortal things, 
That draws Oblivion's curtains over kings — 
Their sumptuous monuments men know them not. 
Their names without a record are forgot, [dust — 
Their parts, their ports, their pomps, all laid i' the 
Norwit, nor gold, nor buildings, 'scape Time's rust; 
But he whose name is graved in the white stone, 
Shall last and shine when all of these are gone ! 

* That is. anticipate. 



MERCY WARREN. 



This "woman, once so well known as a 
poet, and whose historical writings are still 
consulted as aipong the most valuable au- 
thorities relating to our revolutionary age, 
was a sister of the celebrated James Otis and 
the wife of James Warren, for many years 
honorably conspicuous in public affairs. She 
was born in Barnstable, of a family which 
had been nearly a century in the Plymouth 
colony, on the 25th of September, 1728. Her 
youth was passed in retirement, but in hab- 
its and duties suitable for the eldest daugh- 
ter of a gentleman of the first rank in the co- 
lonial society. Her education was directed 
first by the minister of the parish, and after- 
ward by her brother James, who graduated 
at Harvard in 1743, and was a thoroughly 
accomplished scholar. When about twenty- 
six years of age she was married to Mr. War- 
ren, then a merchant at Plymouth, and it was 
while residing with him and her children, 
in after years, near that town, at a place to 
which she gave the name of Clifford, that 
she wrote the greater part of her dramatic 
and miscellaneous poems. 

The popular excitement which preceded 
the separation from England, and the rela- 
tions sustained by her brother and her hus- 
band to the great parties by which the coun- 
try was divided, had a quick and powerful 
influence upon her ardent and sympathetic 
spirit, and perhaps nothing would give us a 
more just impression of the feelings of the 
time than her eloquent and terse correspon- 
dence with the Adamses, with Jefferson, 
Dickinson, Gerry, Knox, and other leading 
characters, upon the aspects and prospects 
of affairs. Her intercourse with the remark- 
able women who seconded so earnestly the 
movements of the fathers of the republic, 
was more intimate, and probably would ad- 
mit us yet further into the secrets and pas- 
sions of the youthful heart of the nation. 
Her intelligence and patriotism are recog- 
nised by Mrs. Adams, who, in a letter to 
her written in 1773, remarks: "You are so 
sincere a lover of your country, and so hearty 
a mourner in all her misfortunes, that it will 



greatly aggravate your anxiety to hear how 
much she is now oppressed and insulted. 
To you, who have so thoroughly looked 
through the deeds of men, and developed the 
dark designs of a 'Rapatio' soul, no action, 
however base or sordid, no measure, how- 
ever cruel and villanous, will be a matter 
of surprise." By " Rapatio" is meant Gov- 
ernor Hutchinson, who is thus designated in 
The Group, a satirical drama, in two acts, 
which Mrs. Warren had published, and to 
which much influence is ascribed in contem- 
porary letters. In the first scene of the sec- 
ond act, in describing the royal governor, 
she says : 

But mark the traitor ! his high crime glossed o'er 

Conceals tile tender feelings of the man, 

Tfie social ties tliat bind the human heart : 

He strikes a bargain with his country's foes, 

And joins to wrap America m fiames. 

Yet, with feigned pity and Satanic grin, 

As if more deep to fix the keen insult. 

Or make his life a farce still more complete. 

He sends a groan across the broad Atlantic, 

And with a phiz of crocodilean stamp, 

Can weep and writhe, still hoping to deceive. 

He cries, The gathering clouds hang thick about her, 

But laughs within — then sobs, Alas, my country ! 

And in another place, alluding to the de- 
struction of the tea in Boston harbor : 

India's poisonous weed, 
Long since a sacrifice to Thetis, made 
A rich regale. Now all the watery dames 
May snuff souchong, and sip, in flowing bowls. 
The higher-flavored choice hysonian stream, 
And leave their nectar to old Homer's gods. 

There is certainly very little poetry in these 
extracts, or in the piece from which they are 
taken ; but as reflexions of the common feel- 
ing her satires received the best applause of 
the day. 

Mrs. Warren's residence was changed du- 
ring the Revolution to Milton, Watertown, 
and other places ; Washington, Lee, Gates, 
and D'Estaing, were among her occasional 
guests ; and many of the leading statesmen 
of New England by her fireside formed plans 
of the execution of which she subsequently 
became the historian. Her tragedies were 
written for amusement, in the solitary hom-s 

21 



22 



MERCY WARREN. 



in which her friends were abroad, and they 
are as deepl3dmbued with the general spirit 
as if their characters were acting in the daily- 
experience of the country. They have little 
dramatic or poetic merit, but many passages 
are smoothly and some vigorously written — 
as the following, from The Sack of Rome : 

SUSPICION". 

I think some latent mischief lies concealed 
Beneath the vizard of a fair pretence ; 
My heart ill brooked the errand of the day, 
Yet I obeyed — though a strange horror seized 
My gloomy mind, and shook my frame 
As if the moment murdered all my joys. 

HEMORSE. 

The bird of death that nightly pecks the roof, 
Or shrieks beside the caverns of the dead ; 
Or paler specti"es that infest the tombs 
Of guilt and darkness, horror or despair. 
Are far more welcome to a wretch like me 
Than yon bright rays that deck the opening mom. 

FORTUNE. 

The wheel of fortune, rapid in its flight, 
Lags not for man, when on its svrift routine ; 
Nor does the goddess ponder unresolved : 
She wafts at once and on her lofty car 
Lifts up her puppet — mounts him to the skies. 
Or fi'om the piimacle hurls headlong down 
The steep abyss of disappointed hope. 

ARDELIA. 

She was, for innocence and truth, 
For elegance, true dignity, and grace, 
The fairest sample of that ancient worth 
Th' illustrious mati'ons boasted to the world 
When Rome was famed for every glorious deed. 

DECIINE OF PUBLIC VIRTUE. 

That dignity the gods themselves inspired, 
When Rome, inflamed with patriotic zeal, 
Long taught the world to tremble and admire. 
Lies faint and languid in the wane of fame. 
And must expire in Luxury's lewd lap 
If not supported by some vigorous arm. 

Or these, from The Ladies of Castile : 

CIVIL WAR. 

'Mongst all the ills that hover o'er mankind. 
Unfeigned, or fabled in the poet's page, 
The blackest scrawl the sister furies hold. 
For red-eyed Wrath or Malice to fill up, 
Is incomplete to sum up human wo. 
Till Civil Discord, still a darker fiend, 
Stalks forth unmasked from his infernal den. 
With mad Alecto's torch in his right hand. 

THE COURAGE OF VIRTUE. 

A soul, inspired by fireedom's genial warmth. 
Expands, grows firm, and by resistance, strong ; 
The most successful prince that oflers life. 
And bids me live upon ignoble terms, 
Shall learn from me that virtue seldom fears. 
Death kindly opes a thousand friendly gates, 
And Freedom waits to guard her votaries through. 



Appended to her tragedies are several 
miscellaneous poems, generally in a flowing 
verse, but frequently marked by bad taste, 
and rarely evincing any real poetical power 
or feeling. The following lines are from the 
beginning of an epistle to a young gentleman 
educated in Europe : — 

SUPERSTITIOS. 

When ancient Britons piped the rustic lays, 
And tuned to Woden notes of vocal praise. 
The dismal dirges caught the listening throng, 
And ruder gestures joined the antique song. 
Then the gray druid's grave, majestic air. 
The fi'antic priestess, with dishevelled hair 
And flaming torch, spoke Superstition's reign ; 
While elfin damsels dancing o'er the plain, 
Allured the vulgar by the mystic scene, 
To keep long vigils on the sacred green. 

In A Political Revery, written before the 
commencement of the war, she gives a view 
of the future glory of America, and the pun- 
ishment of her oppressors. After a sketch 
of the first history of the country, she says : 

Here a bright form, vrith soft majestic grace, 
Beckoned me on through vast' unmeasured space ; 
Beside the margin of the vast profound, 
Wild echoes played and cataracts did bound; 
Beyond the heights of nature's wide expanse, 
Where moved superb the planetary dance. 
Light burst on light, and suns o'er suns displayed 
The system perfect Nature's God had laid. 

And here the fate of nations is revealed to 
her. In The Squabble of the Sea-Nymphs 
is celebrated the destruction of tea in 1774. 
The following are the concluding lines : 

The virtuous daughters of the neighb'ring mead 
In graceful smiles approved the glorious deed 
(And though the syrens left their coral beds, 
Just o'er the surface lifted up their heads. 
And sung soft paeans to the brave and fair, 
Till almost caught in the delusive snare 
To sink securely in a golden dream. 
And taste the sweet, inebriating stream) ; 
They saw delighted fi'om the inland rocks. 
O'er the broad deep poured out Pandora's box ; 
They joined, and fair Salacia's triumph sung — 
Wild echo o'er the bounding ocean rung ; 
The sea-nymphs heard, and all the sportive train 
In shaggy tresses danced around the main, 
From southern lakes down to the northern rills, 
And spread confusion round N hills. 

The lines to the Hon. John Winthrop, who, 
on the determination in 1774 to suspend all 
trade with England except for the real "ne- 
cessaries of life," requested a list of articles 
the ladies might comprise under that head, 
are in the author's happiest vein of satire : — 



MERCY WARREN. 



23 



THINGS NECESSARY TO THE LIFE OF A VroMAJf. 

An inventory clear 
Of all she needs, Lamira offers here ; 
Nor does she fear a rigid Cato's frown, 
When she lays by the Tich embroidered gown, 
And modestly compounds for just enough — 
Pei-haps some dozens of mere flighty stuff: 
With lawns and lusti-ings, blond, and mecklin laces, 
Fringes and jewels, fans and tweezer-cases ; 
Gay cloaks and hats, of every shape and size, 
Scarfs, cardinals, and ribands, of all dyes ; 
With ruffles stamped, and aprons of tambour, 
Tippets and handkerchiefs at least threescore ; 
M'ith finest muslins that fair India boasts, 
And the choice herbage from Chinesan coasts. 
Add feathers, furs, rich satins, and ducapes, 
And head-dresses in pyramidial shapes ; 
Sideboards of plate, and porcelain profiise, 
With fifty dittoes that the ladies use ; 
If my poor, treach'rous memory has missed, 

Ingenious T 1 shall complete the list. 

So weak Lamira, and her wants so few. 
Who can refuse 1 — they 're but tire sex's due. 
Yet Clara quits the more dressed negligee, 
And substitutes the careless Polanee, 
Until some fair one from Britannia's court 
Some jaunty dress or newer taste import ; 
This sweet temptation could not be withstood, 
Though for the purchase's paid her father's blood ; 
Though earthquakes rattle, or volcanoes roar, 
Indulge this trifle — and she asks no more : 
Can the stern patriot Clara's suit deny 1 
'Tis Beauty asks, and Reason must comply. 

John Adams was perhaps a better orator 
than critic. He writes to Mrs. Warren, up- 
on the publication of her poems : " However 
foolishly some European writers may have 
sported with American reputation for genius, 
literature, and science, I know not where 
they will find a female poet of their own to 
prefer to the ingenious author of these com- 
positions." 

In the dedication of her poems to Wash- 
ington, she says : " Feeling much for the 
distresses of America in the dark days of her 
affliction, a faithful record has been kept of 
the most material transactions, through a 
period that has engaged the attention both 
of the philosopher and the politician ; and, 
if life is spared, a just trait of the most dis- 
tinguished characters, either for valor, vir- 
tue, or patriotism, for perfidy, intrigue, in- 



consistency, or ingratitude, shall be faithful- 
ly transmitted to posterity." The work thus 
announced was published in three octavo vol- 
umes in 1805, under the title of " The His- 
tory of the Rise, Progress, and Termination 
of the American Revolution, interspersed 
with Biographical, Political, and Moral Ob- 
servations." It will always be consulted as 
one of the most interesting original authori- 
ties upon the revolution. It is written with 
care, and in a spirit of independence which 
is illustrated by her notice of the character 
of her friend Mr. Adams, which was so un- 
favorable as to cause a temporary interrup- 
tion of the relations between the two fami- 
lies ; but Mrs. Adams in this case, as in that 
of her husband's quarrel with Mr. Jefferson, 
finally brought about a reconciliation, which 
was sealed with a ring which she sent to the 
historian, containing her own and her hus- 
band's hair. 

Mrs. Warren continued to the close of her 
life to feel a lively interest in affairs, and she 
was intelligent and honest enough to be al- 
ways a partisan. Though sometimes wrong, 
as she clearly was in her active opposition 
to the federal constitution, it was delightful 
to see even in a woman a contempt for that 
neutrality in regard to public measures which 
under a democratic government is invariably 
the sign of a feeble understanding or of time- 
serving wickedness. The duke de Roche- 
foucault, in his entertaining Travels in the 
United States, speaks of her extensive and 
varied reading, and declares that at seventy 
she had "lost neither the activity of her 
mind nor the graces of her person." In her 
old age she was blind, but she bore the mis- 
fortune with cheerfulness, and continued her 
intercourse with society. She died in her 
eighty-seventh year, on the 19ih of October, 
1814. 

There is a portrait of Mrs. Warren, by 
Copley, in the possession of her family, and 
an excellent life of her is contained in Mrs. 
EUet's recently published " Women of the 
Revolution." 



ELIZABETH GR/EME FERGUSON. 



The most polite and elegant society in this 
country before the Revolution was probably 
that of Philadelphia, with its connexions in 
the southeastern part of the colony, and in 
Delaware and New Jersey. Therewere "sol- 
id men" in Boston, there was much real re- 
spectability in New York, and good families 
were scattered through New England and 
along the Old Dominion and the Carolinas : 
but in Philadelphia the distinction of classes 
was more marked, and the coteries of fash- 
ion larger and more exclusive, than else- 
where in America. Of the first rank here 
were the Graemes, of Grseme Park, who by 
blood, fortune, abilities, and character, were 
alike entitled to consideration among the pro- 
vincial gentry. Dr. Thomas Graeme was a 
native of Scotland. He was a physician of 
large acquirements, and the respectability of 
his origin, his popular maimers, and success 
in the practice of his profession, made him 
an eligible match for the daughter of Sir 
William Keith; and his alliance with the 
governor led to his appointment to the col- 
lectorship of the customs, which he held for 
many years. 

Elizabeth Ge^me, the youngest of the 
four children of Thomas Graeme and Anne 
Keith, was born in Philadelphia in 1739. 
At an early age she evinced uncommon abil- 
ities, and the chief care of her mother was 
to educate her mind and heart so that she 
should illustrate hy her intelligence and vir- 
tue the highest grade of female character. 
Much of her youth was passed at GrEeme 
Park, a beautiful country residence, twenty 
miles from the city, where she was frequent- 
ly visited by her friends, and where her nat- 
urally feeble constitution was so improved, 
that when she appeared in society, at six- 
teen, the charms of her person were scarcely 
less distisguished than the wit and learning 
which made her a particular star in the me- 
tropolitan society. In her seventeenth year 
she was addressed by a young gentleman of 
the city, and engaged to be married to him 
upon his return from London, whither he 
soon after proceeded to complete his educa- 



tion in the law. This contract for some rea- 
son was never fulfilled. To divert her atten- 
tion from the disappointment, Miss Graeme 
undertook the translation of Fenelon's Te- 
lemachus into English heroic verse ; and she 
completed the work, in three years. In 
an introduction, written in 1769, she ob- 
serves that " she is sensible the translation 
has little merit," but that' " it is sufficient 
for her that it amused her in a period that 
would have been pensive and solitary with- 
out a pursuit." 

It appears, however, that her health rap- 
idly declined ; and it was determined by her 
father,* after conferences upon the subject 
with other physicians, that she should seek 
its restoration by a sea-voyage and a tempo- 
rary residence in England. She sailed for 
London under the care of the Rev. Dr. Rich- 
ard Peters, a gentleman of polished manners 
and elevated character, whose connexions 
enabled him to secure her introduction to the 
most eminent persons and to the first circles 
in the kingdom. She was particularly no- 
ticed bjr George III. ; she became acquainted 
with Laurence Sterne and other celebrated 
wits and men of letters ; and she formed an 
intimacy with the well-known Dr. Fother- 
gill, which was maintained by correspon- 
dence until his death. She remained in 
England a year, during which period she 
kept a journal, in which she described, with 
happy vivacity, manners and persons, and the 
contrasts between English and colonial so- 
ciety. 

After her return to Philadelphia she occu- 
pied the place of her mother in her father's 
family. Every Saturday evening for several 
years was set apart for the reception of com- 
pany, and on these occasions her pleasing 
manners and brilliant conversation were 
causes of never-ending admiration to the in- 

* It is related that her mother assented to Miss Grisme'a 
departure for another reason. This venerable and excel- 
lent woman wa-s anticipating, from some disease, a quick 
dissolution, .ind she desired the removal of her daughter, 
to whom she was tenderly attached, lest her presence 
should distract her attention from heaven, and wean her 
heart too much from the love of God in the hour of death. 
Archbishop Lightfoot wished for similar reasons to die 
from home. 

34 



ELIZABETH GR^ME FERGUSON. 



25 



telligent society of the city and to the stran- 
gers whose positions or abilities secured for 
them a presentation at Dr. GrEeme's house. 
At one of these parties slie became acquaint- 
ed with Mr. Hugh Henry Ferguson, a young 
gentleman who had recently arrived in the 
country from Scotland ; and though he was 
ten years younger, her personal attractions 
and the congeniality of their tastes soon led 
to their marriage. Her father died in a few 
weeks after, and they retired to Grseme Park ; 
hut the approach of the Revolution, and the 
adhesionofB'Ir. Ferguson to the British par- 
ty, in 1775, induced a speedy and perpetual 
separation. 

Mrs. Ferguson's position made her an ob- 
ject of respectful consideration to individuals 
of both parties durmg the war. Her domes- 
tic relations were principally with the ene- 
my, but she was by birth a Pennsylvanian, 
and her old friends, some of whom were 
leading patriots, treated her with kindness. 
She appears in the public history of the time 
as the bearer of an extraordinary letter from 
the celebrated Dr. Duche to General Wash- 
ington, and as the agent by whom Governor 
Johnstone made those overtures to General 
Joseph Pteed which were answered by the 
famous declaration — " My influence is but 
small, but were it as great as Governor John- 
stone would insinuate, the king of Great Brit- 
ain has nothing in his gift that would tempt 
me."* 

The remainder of Mrs. Ferguson's life was 
passed chiefly at Grasme Park, in the pur- 
suits of literature, in domestic avocations, 
and in offices of friendship. Her income was 
greatly reduced, but her charities were never 
interrupted, nor was she ever known to mur- 
mur at the changed and comparatively deso- 
late condition of her later years. She cher- 
ished an unhesitating faith in the Christian 
religion, and was familiar with the masters 
of divinity. It is related that she transcribed 
the whole Bible, to impress its contents more 
deeply in her memory. 

More than twenty years after the comple- 

• gparks's Wasliinston, v. 95, 476 ; William B. Reed's 
Life of President Reed, i., 381 ; American Remembrancer, 



tion of her translation of Telemachus, she 
rewrote the four volumes, adding occasional 
notes and observations. In some memoranda 
dated at Gra;me Park, May 20, 1788, she 
says of the copy which received her last cor- 
rections : " This is meant for a particular 
friend, but if I live I intend to give a more 
correct version, and perhaps, if I meet with 
encouragement, shall have it printed. I am 
now quite undetermined as to all my plans 
in life. I have little reason to think I am 
to remain here long ; but at present I am at 
this place with only my old and faithful friend 
Eliza Stedman." She lived until the 23d of 
February, 1801, but it does not appear that 
she ever again revised the work, and it has 
not yet been printed. 

She endeavored to make the translation as 
literal as the poetical form and the genius of 
our language would permit ; it is, however, 
some-n-bat diffuse, the twenty-four books ma- 
king iwenty-nine thousand and six hundred 
lines. I have read Mrs. Ferguson's manu- 
script (which has been deposited by her heirs 
in the library of the Philadelphia Library 
Company), and have compared parts of- it 
with the original and with other translations. 
She had command of a fine poetical diction, 
and all the learning necessary for the just 
apprehension and successful illustration of 
her author ; and it appears to me that Fene- 
lon has not been presented in a more correct 
or pleasing English dress. 

Some of the minor poems, and a consider- 
able number of the letters and other composi- 
tions of Mrs. Ferguson, have been published, 
and they all evince a delicate and vigorous 
undersianding, and an honorable character. 

A talent for versification was at that pe- 
riod not uncommon among the educated wo- 
men of the country, but it was principally 
exercised in the expression of private feeling 
or for the amusement of particular circles. 
Some verses by Mrs. Stockton, welcoming 
Washington to New Jersey, have been pre- 
served by Marshall, and in the monthly mag- 
azines of Philadelphia, New York, and Bos- 
ton, appeared many anonymous poems, evi- 
dently by female authors, which were emi- 
nently creditable to their literary abilities; 



26 



ELIZABETH GR^ME FERGUSON. 



INVOCATION TO WISDOM. 

PREFIXED TO THE AUTHOR'S TRAXSLATION OF THE 
ADVENTURES OF TELEHACHUS. 



Gbave Wisdom, guardian of the modest youth, 
Thou soul of knowledge and thou source of truth, 
Inspire my muse, and anhuate her lays, 
That she harmonious may chant thy praise. 

could a spai'k of that celestial fire. 
Which did thy favored Fenulon inspire, 
Light on the periods of my fettered theme. 
And dart one radiant, one illumined beam. 
Then strugghng Passion might its portrait view. 
And learn from thence its tumults to subdue. 

This was the pious prelate's great design : 
As raj's converged to one bright point combine, 
So do the fable and the tale unite 
The path of Truth by Fancy's torch to light ; 
Each to one noble, generous aim aspires. 
And the rich galaxy at once conspires 
To catch the fluttering mind and fix the sense. 
The end can justify the fine pretence. 
For youthful spirits absti"act reasonings shun. 
And from grave precept void of hfe they run. 
Though heathen gods are introduced to sig;[it, 
'Tis one Great Being radiates every hght; 
Seen through the medium of a lesser guide. 
From one pure fount is each small rill supplied ; 
Then, rigid Christian, be not too severe. 
Nor think great Cambray in an error here. 

In parable the holy Jesus taught — 
Unwound the clue with mystic knowledge fraught. 
He knew the frailties of man's earthly lot. 
That truths important were too soon forgot ; 
He screened Ms purpose in the pleasing tale, 
Then tore aside the heavenly-woven veil. 
Showed his design — the perfect, sacred plan — 
And raised to angel what he found but man ; 
By nice gradation in this scale divine 
The glorious meaning did illustrious shine. 
Like his great Master, pious Cambray taught. 
And all the good of all mankind he sought : 
Through his Telemachus he points to "^aew 
What youth should fly from and what youth pursue. 
He makes pure Wisdom leave the realms above 
To screen a mortal from bewitching love. 
To lead him through the thorny ways below, 
And all those arts of false refinement show 
Which end in fleeting joy and lasting wo ; 
He paints gay Venus in tumultuous rage. 
Yet shows her baflled by the guardian sage, 
Who draws his pupil from Idalian gi'oves. 
From blooining Cyprus and fi'ora melting loves. 

Passion and Wisdom hold perpetual strife 
Through the sti'ange mazes of man's chequered life. 
Of all the evils our frail nattu'e knows, 
The most acute from Love's emotions flows. 
The utmost efforts of the brave are seen, 
To check the transports of the Paphian ijueen ; 
Minerva gives an energy of soul 
Which docs the tide of Passion's rage control, 
N or damps that fire which generous youth should 
B ut only tempers the high-finished steel : [feel, 
For metal softened, polished, and refined, 
Is like th' opening of the ductile mind. 



Moulded by flame, made pliant to the hand, 
Turned in the furnace to each just command: 
This fire is disappointment, grief, and pain, 
WTiich, if the soul with fortitude sustain, 
The furnace of affliction makes more bright ; 
Yet higher burnished in Jehovah's sight. 
And it at last shall joyfully survey 
The tangled path to where perfection lay, 
And bless the briers of life's thorny road 
That led to peace, to happiness, and God ! 



THE PROCESSION OF CALYPSO. 

FROM THE FIRST BOOK OF TELEMACHUS. 

She moved along 
Environed by a beauteous female throng. 
As some tall oalc, the wonder of the wood. 
That long the glory of the grove has stood, 
Raises its head superb above the rest, 
Of the green forest stands the pride confest, 
So does Calypso tower in state supreme. 
And darts around her an illumined beam. 
The royal youth doth her soft charms admire, 
And the rich lustre of her gay attire. 
Her purple robes hung negligent behind. 
Her hair in careless ringlets met the wind, 
Her sparkling eyes shone with a vivid fire, 
Yet showed no unsubdued, impure desire. 
With modest silence the young prince pursued 
At awfUl distance, cautious to intrude ; 
With downcast eyes the reverend sage came last : 
Thus the procession through the green grove past. 

At length they reached the rural goddess' gi'ot. 
And as they entered the deUghtful spot, 
Telemachus was much amazed to find 
How Nature's beauty could allure the mind. 
An elegant simplicity here reigned. 
Which all the rules of studied art disdained : 
No massy gold, no polished silver, glowed. 
No stone that life in all its passions showed, 
No lively tints spread vigor o'er a face 
And spoke the picture's animating grace ; 
No Doric pillars, no Corinthian style. 
Rose in the turrets of a lofty pile. 
Scooped from a rock the concave grotto lay. 
Where Nature's touches thousand freaks display ; 
There shells and pebbles the rough sides adorned 
That rigid method and dull order scorned ; 
A vine luxuriant round its tendrils flung ; 
Beneath its foliage ladened branches hung. 
This vernal tapestiy careless seemed to hide 
The craggy roughness of its rocky side ; 
The softest zephyrs made meridian suns 
Cool as when Sol his morning progi'ess runs ; 
Meandering fountains stole along the green. 
And amaranths adorned the sprightly scene ; 
The purple violet shed a richness romid, 
And strewed its beauties on the chequered ground ; 
The floweiy chaplets wreath around the lake. 
And in small basins mimic baths they make ; 
The flowers that spring and glowing summer yield, 
In gay profusion ornament the field. 

Not very distant fi-oni the grotto stood 
A tufted grove of fragrant vernal wood ; 



ELIZABETH GR^ME FERGUSON. 



27 



Tlie tempting fruit shone rich Uke burnished gold, 
A dazzling lusti-e charming to behold : 
The blossoms white as pure untrodden snow, 
Their edges shining with the scarlet's glow ; 
They bloom perpetual, and perpetual bear. 
And waft their incense to the yielding air. 
So close their branches, and so near entwined, 
They scarcely trembled to the active wind ; 
No piercing sunbeams could their shades aiuioy, 
No busy eye their sacred peace destroy ; 
No sounds were heard but sprightly birds that sing, 
And the fleet skylark mormting early wing ; 
A tumbling cascade, in which broken falls 
Gushed down in torrents from the rocks' sharp walls. 
But softly gUding ere it met the green. 
Smooth as a mirror, painted back the scene. 

Not on the mountain's top the grot was placed, 
A'^or yet too lowly at its feet debased ; 
From all extremes the charming cave was free, 
At a small distance fi-om the briny sea, 
Where oft you viewed it, softened, calm, and clear, 
Like the lulled bosom when no danger 's near ; 
Sometimes enraged, its angry waves were found 
Dashing the rocks and bursting every bound. 

Your eyes you turn, and from the other side 
You see a river roll its ample tide. 
There scattered islands rose to charm the sight. 
And by the change of novelty delight ; 
Lindens fall, blooming, ladened flowers sustain, 
And raise their heads in lofty, high disdain ; 
In wanton circles the smooth fountains rim. 
And gayly ghstered in the midday sun ; 
In rapid motion some their streams unfurled. 
While others gently with the zephyrs curled— 
By various windings met their former track. 
And slowly murmuring, crept all lazy back. 
Then in a distant view in groups were seen 
Blue, misty mounts, and hills of doubtful green ; 
Their lofty summits lost above the skies. 
And Hke the clouds deluded wandering eyes. 
As pleasing fancy changed its diflerent mode 
And whim and caprice did each object robe. 

The neighboring mountains were more highly 
graced : 
There liberal Nature clustering vines had placed ; 
In noble branches the grand bunches hung. 
And purple raisins burst beneath the sun ; 
The foUage sought their lovely charge to hide. 
Yet the rich grapes shone through in gorgeous pride. 
Then low beneath, mixed with the golden grain. 
The fig and oUve overspread the plain ; 
Its tempting fruit the pomegranate displayed. 
And globes of gold burst through the vernal shade : 
The w'iiole retreat was a deUghtfol grove, 
A soft recess for friendship's sweets or love. 



APOLLO WITH THE FLOCKS OF KING 
ADMETUS. 

FROM THE SAME. 

Ben-eath the shady elms, where fountains played. 
The listening shepherds here his rest invade ; 
Th' informing song new pohshed every soul. 
But bound their passions in a soft control. . . . 



Swiftly the music and the theme would change 
To vi^nd meads where sparkling fountains range. 
Whose gUttering waters the gay plains adorn. 
And all the rules of art-drawn channels scorn ; 
Winding they sport : the meadows seem to smile. 
Their verdure heightened, and enriched their soil. 
Hence the enraptured swains began to know 
That joys serene from moral pleasures flow ; 
The happy rustic pitied now the king, 
That could not, like the cheerfiil shepherd, sing ; 
Their lowly roofs began the great to draw 
To -saew the cottage humbly thatched with straw. 
Courtiers too oft are strangers to delight : 
They rise unhappy fi-om the restless night ; 
But here the graces sweetly were arrayed. 
Here lovely females every charm displayed — 
Soft Innocence and ever-blooming Health, 
That cheerful triumph o'er the slaves of wealth ; 
No torturing envy here the peace invades 
Of the mild shepherd in the greenwood shades ; 
Each day superior shone with new delight, 
And gentle slumbers crowned the sportive wight ; 
The fluttering birds put forth their hveliest notes. 
And stretched to music their expanded throats ; 
The fragrant zephyrs undulate the trees. 
And fan to music the enamored breeze ; 
The rills pellucid murmured to the sound. 
And floating harmony rolled all around ; 
The muses band, the sacred virgin train. 
Inspired the numbers of the tuneful swain : 
But not supine they dwell in idle joys; 
An active vigor, too, their limbs employs : 
To run, to wrestle, to obtain the prize. 
And chase the stag as he o'er mountains flies, 
Was oft the business of a vacant day. 
As through the green grove they betook their way. 
The gods looked down from great Olympus' height, 
And almost envied man's supreme delight. 



THE INVASION OF LOVE. 

FROM THE SEVENTH BOOK OF TELEMACHDS. 

Caltpso dwelt on Cupid's blooming face. 
And clasped him to her in a fond embrace ; 
Though goddess born, she feels love's soft alarms 
As close she strains him in her circling arms 

The thoughtless nymphs all felt the subtle flame. 
But for the strange sensation knew no name. 
Yet innate modesty and latent fear 
Whispered some power of wondrous force was near. 
In silence they the newborn blaze concealed. 
And, blushing, dreaded it might be revealed ; 
The spreading fire a latent heat imparts 
And flings its influence o'er their tender hearts. 

The princely youth, most careless, too, surveyed 
The jocund sweetness which m Cupid played, 
Saw all his little freaks with fond surprise. 
His thoughtless frolics, and his laughing eyes. 
With pleasing transport his fine features traced. 
And on his knees the little urchin placed. 
Views all the changes in his boyish charms, 
Nor feels suspicion of impending harms. 



ANNE ELIZA BLEECKER. 



Mks. Amje Eliza Bleeokek, a daughter 
of Brandt Schuyler, of New York, was born 
in that city in 1752, and when seventeen 
years of age was married to John J. Bleecker 
of New Rochelle. After residing about two 
years in Poughkeepsie, Mr. Bleecker removed 
to Tomhanick, a secluded little village eigh- 
teen miles from Albany, where five years 
were passed in uninterrupted happiness. — 
Mrs. Bleecker's mother, and her half-sister, 
Miss Ten Eycfc, passed much of the time with 
her, and her husband saw the fruition of his 
hopes in the success of plans which had drawn 
him from the more populous parts of the 
colony. It was in this period that Mrs. 
Bleecker wrote most of her poems which 
have been preserved. Before her marriage, 
her playful or serious verses had amused or 
charmed the circle in which she moved — 
one of the most intelligent and accomplished 
then in America — and she now found a sol- 
ace for the absence of society in the indul- 
gence of a taste for literature. The follow- 
ing extract from one of her poems not only 
illustrates her style, but gives us a glimpse 
of her situation : 

From yon grove the woodcock rises, 

Mark her progress by her notes ; 
High in air her wings she poises, 

Then Hke lightning down she shoots. 
Now the whip-poor-will beginning, 

Clamorous on a pointed rail. 
Drowns the more melodious singing 
Of the cat-bird, thrush, and quail. 
Cast your eyes beyond this meadow, 
Painted by a hand divine, 
And observe the ample shadow 
Of that solemn ridge of pine. 
Here a trickling rill depending, 

Gutters through the artless bower ; 
And the silver dew descendhig. 
Doubly radiates every flower. 
While I speak, the sun is vanished, 

All the gilded clouds are tied. 
Music from the groves is banished. 
Noxious vapors round us spread. 
Rural toil is now suspended. 

Sleep invades the peasant's eyes, 
Each diurnal task is ended, 
While soft Luna climbs the skies. 
Some lines addressed to Mr. Bleecker while 
on a voyage down the Hudson, suggest the 



changes of three quarters of a century in the 
travel and culture along the most beautiful 
of rivers. She says : 

Methinks I see the broad, majestic sheet 
Swell to the wind; the flying shores retreat: 
I see the banks, with varied foliage gay. 
Inhale the misty sun's reluctant ray ; 
The lofty groves, stripped of their verdure, rise 
To the mclemence of autumnal skies. [woods 
Rough mountains now appear, while pendant 
Hang o'er the gloomy steep and shade the floods ; 
Slow moves the vessel, while each distant sound 
The caverned echoes doubly loud rebound. 
It was a custom for the lazy sloops occasion- 
ally to rest by the hunting-grounds or in the 
highlands, but she implores her husband not 
to tempt 

Fate, on those stupendous rocks 
Where never shepherd led his timid flocks, 

and dreams that instead of the musket-shot, 
she can hear — 

The melting flute's melodious sound, 
Which dying zephyrs waft alternate round ; 
While rocks, in notes responsive, soft complain. 
And think Amphion strikes his lyre again. 
Ah ! 'tis my Bleecker breathes our mutual loves. 
And sends the ti'embling airs through vocal groves. 

The approach of the British army under Gen- 
eral Burgoyne, in 1777, was the first event 
to disturb this repose. Mr. Bleecker left 
Tomhanick to make arrangements for the re- 
moval of his family to Albany ; but while he 
was gone, hearing that the enemy was but 
two miles distant, she hastily started for the 
city, bearing her yomigest child in her arms, 
and leading the other, who was but four years 
of age, by the hand. A single domestic ac- 
companied her, and they rested at night in 
a garret, after a dreary and most exhausting 
walk through the wilderness. The next 
morning they met Mr. Bleecker coming from 
Albany, and returned with him to the city. 
The youngest of the children died a few days 
after, and within a month Mrs. Bleecker's 
mother expired in her arms, at Redhook. 
The death of her child is commemorated in 
the following lines, which evince genuine 
feeling, and are in a very natural style : — 
WRiTTES om THE hetheat fkom burgoyne. 

Was it for this, with thee, a pleasing load, 
I sadly wandered through the hostile wood — 
When I thought Fortune's spite could do no more, 



ANNE ELIZA BLEECKER. 



29 



To see thee perish on a foreign shore ] 

Oh my loved babe ! my treasures left behind 

Ne'er sunk a cloud of grief upon my mind ; 

Rich in my children, on my anus I bore 

My livmg treasures from the scalper'a power : 

When I sat down to rest, beneath some shade, 

On the soft grass how innocent she played. 

While her sweet sister from the fragrant mid 

Collects the flowers lo please my precious child. 

Unconscious of her danger, laughing roves. 

Nor dreads the painted savage in the groves ! 

Soon as the spires of Albany appeai'ed, 
With fallacies my rising grief I cheered : 
" Resign ?^l I bear," said I, " Heaven's just reproof, 
Content to dwell beneath a stranger's roof — 
Content my babes should eat dependent bread. 
Or by the labor of my hands be fed. 
What though my houses, lands, and goods, are gone, 
My babes remain — these I can call my own !" 
But soon my loved Abella hung her head — 
From her soft cheek the bright carnation tied ; 
Her smooth, transparent skin too plainly showed 
How fierce through every vein the fever glowed. 
— In bitter anguish o'er her limbs I hung, 
I wept and sighed, but sorrow chained my tongue ; 
At length her languid eyes closed from the day, 
The idol of my soul was torn away ; 
Her spirit fled and left me ghastly clay ! 

Then — then my soul rejected all relief. 
Comfort I wished not, for I loved my grief: 
" Hear, my Abella," cried I, " hear me mourn ! 
For one short moment, oh, my child ! return ; 
Let my complaint detam thee from the skies, 
Thoi^gh troops of angels urge thee on to rise" .... 
My friends press round me with officious cai'e, 
Bid me suppress my sighs, nor drop a tear ; 
Of resignation talked — passions subdued — ■ 
Of souls serene, and Christian fortitude — 
Bade me be calm, nor murmur at my loss. 
But unrepining bear each heavy cross. 

" Go !" cried I, raging, " stoic bosoms, go ! 
Whose hearts vibrate not to the sound of wo ; 
Go from the sweet societ}' of men. 
Seek some unfeehng tiger's savage den. 
There, calm, alone, of resignation preach — 
My Cluist's examples better precepts teach." 
Where the cold limbs of gentle Ijazarus lay, 
I find him weeping o'er the humid clay ; 
His spirit groaned, while the beholders said. 
With gushing eyes, " See how he loved the dead !" 
Yes, 'tis my boast to harbor m my breast 
The sensibilities by God exprest ; 
Nor shall the mollifying hand of Time, 
Which wipes off common sorrows, cancel mine. 

From this time a pensive melancholy took 
the place of the quiet gayety that had pre- 
viously distinguished her manners ; but her 
life was not marked by any event of partic- 
ular interest until the summer of 1781, when 
her husband was taken prisoner by a party 
of tories, and her sensitive spirit was crushed 
in despair. She fled to Albany, where he re- 
joined her at the end of a week ; but his sud- 



den restoration produced an excitement even 
deeper than that occasioned by his supposed 
death, and she never regained her health, nor 
scarcely her composure. She returned to 
Tomhanick, and in the spring of 1783 revis- 
ited New York, in the hope that a change 
of scene and the society of her early friends 
would restore something of her strength and 
happiness ; but war had changed the pleas- 
ant places she remembered, and her dearest 
friends were dead. She went back with her 
husband to Tomhanick, where she died on 
the 23d of the followmg November. Her 
last return to her home is commemorated in 
these pleasing verses : 

Hail, happy shades ! though clad with heavy 
At sight of you with joy my bosom glows ; [snows, 
Ye arching pines that bow with every breeze, 
Ye poplars, elms, all hail, my well-known trees ! 
And now my peaceful mansion strikes my eye. 
And now the tiiikling rivulet I spy ; — 
My little garden, Flora, hast thou kept. 
And watched my pinks and liUes while I wept t 
Ah me ! that spot with blooms so lately graced. 
With storms and driving snows is now defaced : 
Sharp icicles from every bush depend, 
And frosts all dazzluig o'er the beds extend ; 
Yet soon fail" spring shall give another scene, 
And yellow cowslips gild the level green ; 
My little orchard, sprouting at each bough, 
Fragrant with clust'ring blossoms deep shall glow : 
Oh ! then 't is sweet the tufted grass to tread. 
But sweeter slumb'ring in the balmy shade ; 
The rapid humming-bird, with ruby breast. 
Seeks the parterre with early blue-bells drest, 
Drinks deep the honeysuckle dew, or drives 
The lab'ring bee to her domestic liives ; 
Then shines the lupin bright with morning gems, 
And sleepy poppies nod upon their stems ; 
The hmuble violet and the dulcet rose. 
The stately lily then, and tulip, blows. . . . 

But when the vernal breezes pass away, 
And loftier Phcebus darts a fiercer ray. 
The spiky corn then rattles all around. 
And dashing cascades give a pleasing sound ; 
Shrill sings the locust with prolonged note, 
The cricket chirps familiar in each cot ; 
The village children, rambling o'er yon hOl, 
With berries all their painted baskets fill : 
They rob the squirrels' little walnut store. 
And climb the half-exhausted tree for more. 
Or else to fields of maije nocturnal hie. 
Where hid, th' elusive watermelons lie 
Then load their tender shoulders with the prey, 
And laughing bear the bulky fruit away. 

M rs. Bleecker possessed considerable beau- 
ty, and she was much admired in society. A 
collection of her posthumous works, in prose 
and verse, was published in 1793, and again 
in 1809, with a notice of her life by her 
daughter, Mrs. Margaretta V. Faugeres. 



PHILLIS WHEATLEY PETERS. 



This " daughter of the murky Senegal," 
as she is styled by an admiring contemporary 
critic, we suppose may be considered as an 
Americar, since she was but six years of age 
when brought to Boston and sold in the slave- 
market of that city, in 1761. If not so great 
a poet as the abbe Gregoire contended, she 
was certainly a remarkable phenomenon, and 
her name is entitled to a place in the histo- 
ries of her race, of her sex, and of our liter- 
ature. 

She was purchased by the wife of Mr. 
John AVheatley, a respectable merchant of 
Boston, who was anxious to superintend the 
education of a domestic to attend upon her 
person in the approaching period of old age. 
This amiable woman on visiting the market 
was attracted by the modest demeanor of a 
little child, in a sort of "fillibeg," who had 
just arrived, and taking her home, confided 
her instruction in part to a daughter, who, 
pleased with her good behavior and quick 
apprehension, determined' to teach her to 
read and write. The readiness with which 
she acquired knowledge surprised as much 
as it pleased her mistress, and it is probable 
that but few of the white children of Boston 
were brought up under circumstances better 
calculatedfor the full development of their nat- 
ural abilities. Her ambition was stimulated : 
she became acquainted with grammar, histo- 
ry, ancient and modern geography, and astron- 
omy, and studJK^d Latin so as to read Horace 
with such ease and enjoyment that her French 
biographer supposes the great Roman had 
considerable influence upon her literary tastes 
and the choice of her subjects of composition. 
A general interest was felt in the sooty prodi- 
gy ; the best libraries were open to her ; and 
she had opportunities for conversation with 
the most accomplished and distinguished per- 
sons in the city. 

She appears to have had but an indifferent 
physical constitution, and when a son of Mr. 
Wheatley visited England, in 1772, it was 
decided by the advice of the family physician 
that Phillis should accompany him for the 
benefit of the sea-voyage. In London she 



was treated with nearly as much considera- 
tion as more recently has been awarded to 
Mr. Frederick Douglass. She was intro- 
duced to many of the nobility and gentry, 
and would have been received at court but 
for the absence of the royal family from the 
metropolis. Her poems were published un- 
der the patronage of the Countess of Hun- 
tingdon, with a letter from her master, and 
the following curious attestation of their gen- 
uineness: 

"To THE Public. — A sit lias been repeatedly sug- 
gested to the publisher, by persons wlio have seen 
the manuscript, tliat numbers would be ready to sus- 
pect they "were not really the writings of Pliillis, he 
has procured the foUowiug attestation from the most 
respectable chai'actei's in Boston, that none might 
have the least ground for disputing their original : 
We, whose nanies are underwritten, do assure the 
world that the poems specilied in the tbllowing page** 
were (as we verily believe) written b^r Philhs, a 
young negro-girl, who was, hut a few years since, 
brought an uncultivated barbarian ii'oni Afi'ica, and 
has ever smce been, and new is, under the disadvan- 
tage of sei*ving as a slave in a family in tliis tovini. 
She has been examined by some of the best judges, 
and is thought qualilied to write them. 

His F.NCfUency Tho,iah Hi'Trnisox, Governor. 

Tlif Hiin. A^DRBw Olivbii, Li«iit. Governor. 
Tlie Hon. Tliom.is Hulibard, Tlie Kev. Clms. Clinuncey, D. D., 
Tlie Hon. Julm Eiving, Tlie Kev. Miitlier Byloa, D. D., 

T!ie Hon. .lames Pitts, TlieRev, Edw'd Pemljerton, D.D., 

The Hon. Hiirrison Gray, The Rev. Andrew Elliot, D. D., 
The Hon. James Bowdoin, The Keu. Samuel Coiiper, D. D., 
.Tohn Hani'ock, Esq., The Rev. Mr. Samnel Mather, 

Jo.-eph Green, Esq., The Rev. Mr. .Tolm Moorhead, 

Richard Carey, Esq , Mr. John Wueatiey {lier master}." 

In 1774 — the year after the return of Phil- 
lis to Boston — her mistress died; she soon 
lost her master, and her younger mistress, 
his daughter ; and the son having married 
and settled in England, she was left without 
a protector or a home. The events which 
immediately preceded the Revolution now 
engrossed the attention of those acquaintan- 
ces who in more peaceful and prosperous 
times would have been her friends; and 
though she took an apartment and attempt- 
ed in some way to support herself, she saw 
with fears the approach of poverty, and at 
last, in despair, resorted to marriage as the 
only alternative of destitution. 

Gregoire, who derived his information 
from M. Giraud, the French consul at Bos- 
ton in 1805, states that her husband, in the 



* The words " followinjr page'' allude to the contents of 
the manuscript copy, which are wrote at the back of the 
above attestation. 

30 



PHILLIS WHEATLEY PETERS. 



31 



superiority of his understanding to that of 
otlier negroes, was also a kind of phenome- 
non ; that he " became a lawyer, under the 
name of Doctor Peters, and plead before the 
tribunals the cause of the blacks;" and that 
" the reputation he enjoyed procured him a 
fortune."* But a later biographer! of Phil- 
lis declares that Peters " kept a grocery, in 
Court street, and was a man of handsome 
person and manners, wearing a wig, carry- 
ing a cane, and quite acting the gentleman ;" 
that " he proved utterly unworthy of the dis- 
tinguished woman who honored him with 
her alliance ;" that he was unsuccessful in 
husiness, failing soon after their marriage, 
and "was too proud and too indolent to ap- 
ply himself to any occupation below his fan- 
cied dignity." Whether Peters practised 
physic and law or not, it appears pretty cer- 
tain that he did not make a fortune, and that 
the match was a very unhappy one, tliough 
we think the author last quoted, who is one 
of the family, shows an undue partiality for 
his maternal ancestor. Peters in his adver- 
sity was not very unreasonable in demand- 
ing that his wife should attend to domestic 
affairs — that she should cook his breakfast 
and dam his stockings ; but she too had cer- 
tain notions of " dignity," and regarded as 
altogether beneath her such unpoetical oc- 
cupations. During the war they lived at 
Wilmington, in the interior of Massachu- 
setts, and in this period Phillis became the 
mother of three children. After the peace, 
they returned to Boston, and continued to 
live there, most of the time in wretched pov- 
erty, till the death of Phillis, on the 5th of 
December, 1794. 

Besides the poems included in the editions 
of 1 773 and 1835, she wrote numerous pieces 
which have not been printed, one of which 
is referred to in the following letter from 
Washington : 

" Cambridge, February 28, 1776, 
" Miss Phillis : Your favor of the 26th of October 
did not reach my hands till the middle of December. 
Time enough, you will say, to have given an answer 
ere this. Granted, But a variety of important occur- 
rences, continually interposing^ to disti'act the mind 

* An Inquiry concerning the Intellectual and Moral Fac- 
ulties and Literature of Negroes, followed with an Account 
of the lAvfn and Works of Fifteen Negroes and Mulattoes, 
distinguished in Science, Literature, and the Arts : By H. 
Greguire, foi-merly Bishop of Blois, Member of the Con- 
BervHtiveSenate, of the Institute of France, &c., &c. Trans- 
lated by D. B. Warden, Secretary of Legation, &c. Brook- 
lyn, 1810. 

t See memoir prefixed to the edition of her poems pub- 
lished by Light <Si Horton, Bosttm, 1835. 



and withdraw the attention, I hope will apologise for 
the delay, and plead my excuse for the seeming but 
not real neglect. 1 thank you most sincerely foryotur 
polite notice of me, in the elegant lines you enclosed ; 
and however imdesemng I may be of such encomi- 
imi and panegyric, the st}ie and manner exhibit a 
stliking proof of your poetical talents ; in honor of 
which, and as a tiibute justly due to you, 1 would 
have published the poem, had I not been apprehen- 
sive tliat, while I only meant to give the world this 
new instance of your genius, I might have incun-ed 
the unputatiou of vanity. This, and nothing else, de- 
teiTuiucd me not to give it place in the public prints. 
If you should ever come to Cambridge, or near head- 
quarters, 1 shall he happy to see a person so favored 
by the muses, and to whom Nature has been so lib- 
eral and beneficent in her dispensations. I am, with 
gi'eat respect, your obedient, humble sei'vjint, 

*' Georgk Washington." 

In a note to the memoir of Phillis pub- 
lished by one of her descendants, it is stated 
that after her death, her papers, which had 
been confided to an acquaintance, were de- 
manded by Peters, and yielded to his impor- 
tunity ; and that Peters subsequently went 
to the south, carrying with him these papers, 
which were never afterward heard of. The 
MSS., however, are still in existence: they 
are owned by an accomplished citizen of 
Philadelphia, whose mother was one of the 
patrons of the author. I learn from this gen- 
tleman that Phillis wrote with singular flu- 
ency, and that she excelled particularly in 
acrostics and in other equally difficult tricks 
of literary dexterity. 

The intellectual character of Phillis Wheat- 
ley Peters has been much discussed, but chief- 
ly by partisans. On one hand, Mr. Jefferson 
declares that " the pieces published under her 
name are below the dignity of criticism," and 
that " the heroes of the Dunciad are to her 
as Hercules to the author of that poem ;" and 
on the other hand, the abbe Gregoire, Mr. 
Clarkson, and many more, see in her works 
the signs of a genuine poetical inspiration. 
They seem to me to be quite equal to much 
of the contemporary verse that is admitted 
to be poetry by Phillis's severest judges ; 
though her odes, elegies, and other compo- 
sitions, are but harmonious commonplace, it 
would be difficult to find in the productions 
of American women, for the hundred and fif- 
ty years that had elapsed since the death of 
Mrs. Bradstreet, anything superior in senti- 
ment, fancy, or diction. 

— In a portrait of Phillis, prefixed to her 
poems and declared to be an extraordinary 
likeness, she is represented as of a rather 
pretty and intelligent appearance. It is from 
a picture painted while she was in London. 



33 



PHILLIS WHEATLEY PETERS. 



ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. MR. 
GEORGE WHITEFIELD.— 1770. 

Hail, happy saint ! on thine immortal throne, 
Possessed of glory, life, and bliss unknown : 
We hear no more the music of thy tongue ; 
Thy wonted auditories cease to throng. 
Thy sermons in unequalled accents flowed. 
And every bosom with devotion glowed ; 
Thou didst, in strains of eloquence refined. 
Inflame the heart, and captivate the mind. 
Unhappy, we the setting sun deplore, 
So glorious once, but all ! it shines no more. 

Behold the prophet in his towering flight ! 
He leaves the earth for heaven's unmeasured height, 
And worlds unknown receive him from our sight. 
There Whitefleld wings with rapid course his way. 
And sails to Zion through vast seas of day. 
Thy prayers, great saint, and thine incessant cries. 
Have pierced the bosom of thy native skies. 
Thou, moon, hast seen, and all the stars of light. 
How he has wrestled with his God by night. 
He prayed that grace in every heart might dwell ; 
He longed to sec America excel ; 
He charged its youth that ever}' grace divine 
Should with lull lustre in their conduct shine. 
That Savior, which his soul did first receive. 
The greatest gift that even a God can give. 
He freely offered to the numerous throng 
That on his lips with list'ning pleasure hung. 

" Take him, ye wretched, for 3'our only good. 
Take him,- ye starving sinners, for your food ; 
Ye thirsty, come to this life-giving stream, 
Ye preachers, take him for your joyful theme ; 
Take him, my dear Americans," he said, 
*' Be your complaints on his kind bosom laid : 
Take him, ye Africans, he longs for you ; 
Impartial Savior, is his title due : 
Washed in the fountain of redeeming blood. 
You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to God." 

But though arrested by the hand of death, 
Whitcfield no more exerts his lab'ring breath, 
Yet let us view him in the eternal skies. 
Let every heart to this bright vision rise ; 
While the tomb safe retains its sacred trust, 
Till life divine reanimates his dust. 



FANCY. 

FROM A POEM ON THE IMAGINATION. 

Though Winter frowns, to Fancy's raptured 
The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise ; [eyes 
The frozen deeps may burst tlieir iron bands, 
And 'bid their waters murmur o'er the sands. 
Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign, 
And with her flowery riches deck the plain ; 
Showers may descend, and dews their gems disclose. 
And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose. . . . 

Fancy might now her silken pinions try 
To rise from earth, and sweep the expanse on high ; 
From Tithon's bed now might Aurora rise. 
Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dyes. 
While a pure stream of light o'erflows the skies. 
The monarch of the day I miaht behold. 
And all the mountains tipped with radiant gold. 



But I reluctant leave the pleasing ■sdews, 
Which Fancy dresses to delight the muse ; 
Whiter austere forbids me to aspire. 
And northern tempests damp the rising fire ; 
They chill the tides of Fancy's flowing sea — • 
Cease, then, my song, cease then the unequal lay 



A FAREWELL TO AMERICA. 

TO MRS. S. W. 

Adieu, New England's smiling meads, 

Adieu, the flowery plain ; 
I leave thine opening charms, Spring ! 

And tempt the roaring main. 
In vain for me the flow'rets rise. 

And boast their gaudy pride, 
While here beneath the northern skies 

I mourn for health denied. 
Celestial maid of rosy hue, 

Oh let me feel thy reign ! 
I languish till thy face I view, 

Thy vanished joys regain. 
Susannah mourns, nor can I bear 

To see the crystal shower. 
Or mark the tender falling tear. 

At sad depai'ture's hour ; 
Nor unregarding can I see 

Her soul with grief opprest ; 
But let no sighs, no groans for me. 

Steal fi'oin its pensive breast. 
In vain the feathered warblers sing. 

In vain the garden blooms, 
And on the bosom of the spring 

Breathes out her sweet perfumes. 
While for Britannia's distant shore 

We sweep the liquid plain. 
And with astonished eyes explore 

The wide-extended main. 
Lo ! Health appears, celestial dame ! 

Complacent and serene. 
With Hebe's mantle o'er her firame, 

With soul-delighting mien. 
To mark the vale where London lies. 

With misty vapors crowned. 
Which cloud Aurora's thousand dyes. 

And veil her chai-nis around. 
Why, Phcebus, moves thy car so slow ? 

So slow thy rising ray 1 
Give us the famous town to view. 

Thou glorious king of day ! 
For thee, Britannia, I resign 

New England's smiling fields ; 
To view again her charms divine, 

What joy the prospect yields ! 
But thou, Temptation, hence away. 

With all thy fatal train. 
Nor once seduce my soul away. 

By thine enchanting strain. 
Thrice happy they, whose heavenly shield 

Secures their soul from harms. 
And fell Temptation on the field 

Of all its power disarms ! 



SUSANNAH ROWSON. 



Susannah Haswell, a daughter of Lieu- 
tenant William Haswell of the British navy, 
was about seven years of age when her father, 
then a widower, was sent to the New Eng- 
land station, in 1769. After being wrecked 
on Lovell's island, the family, consisting of 
the lieutenant, his daughter, and her nurse, 
were settled at Nantasket, where Haswell 
married a native of the colony, and resided 
at the beginning of the Revolution, when, 
being a half-pay officer, he was considered a 
prisoner of war, and sent into the interior, and 
subsequently, by cartel, to Halifax, whence 
he proceeded to London. His other children 
were two sons, who became officers in the 
American navy, in which they were honor- 
ably distinguished. 

Miss Haswell, while a child, in Massa- 
chusetts, was often in the company of James 
Otis, and his sister, Mrs. Warren, who were 
pleased with her precocity, and careful edu- 
cation, and she won then many encomiums 
from the great orator, which were remem- 
bered in after years with more delight than 
all the plaudits of the dress circle or the 
praises of the critics. She arrived in London 
about the year 1784, and in 1786 was married 
there to William Rowson, who was probably 
in some way connected with the theatre. In 
the same year she published her first novel, 
Victoria, which was dedicated to Georgiana, 
Duchess of Devonshire, who became her pa- 
troness and introduced her to the Prince of 
Wales, through whom she obtained a pen- 
sion for her father. She next edited Mary or 
the Test of Honor, a novel, published in 1785, 
and wrote, in quick succession, A Trip to Par- 
nassus, A Critique of Authors and Perform- 
ers, The Fille de Chambre, The Inquisitor, 
Mentoria, and Charlotte Temple, the tale by 
which she is now chiefly known, of which 
more than twenty-five thousand copies were 
sold in a few years. 

In 1793 Mrs. Rowson returned to the Uni- 
ted States, and was for three years engaged 
as an actress, in the Philadelphia theatre. 
She was pretty and graceful, and was a fa- 
vorite in genteel comedy, but while attentive 



to her professional duties, she was still in- 
dustrious as an author, and wrote The Trials 
of the Heart, a novel ; Slaves in Algiers, 
an opera; The Female Patriot, a comedy; 
and The Volunteers, a farce relating to the 
whiskey insurrection in Pennsylvania. In 
1795, while temporarily in Baltimore, she 
wrote The Standard of Liberty, a poetical 
address to the armies of the United States, 
which was recited from the stage by Mrs. 
Whilloek,one of the most accomplished ac- 
tresses of the day, before all the uniformed 
companies of the city, in full dress. In 1796 
she was engaged at the Federal-street theatre 
in Boston, where, at the end of a season, she 
closed her histrionic career, by appearing at 
her benefit, in her own comedy of The Amer- 
icans in England. 

She now opened a school for young wo- 
men, which soon became very popular, so that 
it was thronged from the West Indies, the 
British provinces, and all the states of the 
Union. It was continued at Medford, New- 
ton, and Boston, many years, with uniform 
success. But the business of instruction did 
not engross her attention, since she found 
time to compile a Dictionary and several 
other school books, and to write Reuben 
and Rachel, an American novel ; Biblical 
Dialogues, a work evincing considerable re- 
search and reflection, and a volume of poems, 
and for two years to sustain a weekly ga- 
zette chiefly by her own contributions. She 
died in Boston, on the second of March, 1824, 
in the sixty-second year of her age. 

Mrs. Rowson translated several of the odes 
of Horace and the tenth Eclogue of Virgil, 
and she wrote many original songs and other 
short pieces, of which the most ambitiiius 
was an irregular poem On the Birth of Ge- 
nius, which was once much admired. Only 
a few of her songs are now remembered, 
and these less for any poetical qualities than 
for a certain social and patriotic spirit. Her 
"America, Commerce, and Freedom," is 
one of our iew national songs. It would not 
dishonor a Dibdin, but it bears no marks of 
a feminine genius. 

33 



34 



SUSANNAH ROWSON. 



AMERICA, COMMERCE, AND FREEDOM. 

How blest a life a sailor leads, 

From clime to clime still ranging ; 
For as the calm the storm succeeds, 
The scene delights by changing ! 
When tempests howl along the main, 

Some object will remind us. 
And cheer with hopes to meet again 
Those friends we 've left behind us. 
Then, under snug sail, we laugh at the gale. 

And though landsmen look pale, never heed 'em ; 
But toss oflf a glass to a favorite lass. 
To America, commerce, and freedom ! 

And when arrived in sight of land. 

Or safe in port rejoicing. 
Our ship we moor, our sails we hand. 

Whilst out the boat is hoisting. 
With eager haste the shore we reach. 

Our friends delighted greet us ; 
And, tripping lightly o'er the beach, 
The pretty lasses meet us. 
When the full-flowing bowl has enUvened the soul, 

To foot it we merrily lead 'em. 
And each bonny lass will drink off a glass 
To America, commerce, and freedom ! 

Our cargo sold, the chink we share, 

And gladly we receive it ; 
And if we meet a brother tar 

Who wants, we freely give it. 
No freebom sailor yet had store. 
But cheerfully would lend it; 
And when 'tis gone, to sea for more — 
We earn it but to spend it. 
Then drink round, my boys, 'tis the first of our joys 
To relieve the distressed, clothe and feed 'em : 
'Tis a task which we share with the brave and the fair 
In this land of commerce and freedom ! 



KISS THE BRIM, AND BID IT PASS. 

Whest Columbia's shores, receding, 

Lessen to the gazing eye. 
Cape nor island intervening 

Break th' expanse of sea and sky ; 
When the evening shades, descending, 

Shed a softness o'er the mind. 
When the yearning heart will wander 

To the circle left behind — 

Ah, then to Friendship fill the glass, 
Kiss the brim, and bid it pass. 

When, the social boai'd surrounding. 

At the evening's slight repast, 
Often will our bosoms tremble 

As we listen to the blast ; 
Gazing on the moon's pale lustre, 

Fervent shall our prayers arise 
For thy peace, thy health, thy safety. 

Unto Him who formed the skies : 
To Friendship oft we '11 fill the glass. 
Kiss the brim, and bid it pass. 



When in India's sultry climate, 

Mid the burning torrid zone, 
Will not oft thy fancy wander 

From her bowers to thine own 1 
When, her richest fruits partaking, 

Thy unvitiated taste 
Oft shall sigh for dear Columbia, 

And her frugal, neat repast : 
Ah, then to Friendship fill the 
Kiss the biim, and bid it pass ! 



When the gentle eastern breezes 

Fill the homebound vessel's sails, 
Undulating soft the ocean. 

Oh, propitious be the gales ! 
Then, when every danger's over. 

Rapture shall each heart expand ; 
Tears of unmixed joy shall bid thee 

Welcome to thy native land : 

To Friendship, then, we '11 fill the glass. 
Kiss the brim, and bid it pass. 



THANKSGIVING. 

Autumn, recedmg, throws aside 

Her robe of many a varied dye. 
And Winter in majestic pride 

Advances m the lowering sky. 
The laborer in his granaiy stores 

The golden sheaves all safe from spoil. 
While fi'om her horn gay Plenty pours 
Her treasures to reward his toil. 
To solemn temples let us now repair, 
And bow in grateful adoration there ; 
Bid the full sti-ain in hallelujalis rise. 
To waft the sacred incense to the skies. 

Now the hospitable board 

Groans beneath the rich repast — 
All that luxury can afford 

Grateful to the eye or taste ; 
While the orchard's sparlding juice 

And the vintage join their powers ; 
All that nature can produce. 
Bounteous Heaven bids be ours. 
Let us give thanks : Yes, yes, be sure, 
Send for the widow and the orphan poor ; 
Give them wherewith to purchase clothes and food : 
This the best way to prove our gratitude. 

On the hearth high flames the fire. 
Sparkling tapers lend their Ught, 
Wit and Genius now aspire 

On Fancy's gay and rapid flight ; 
Now the viol's sprightly lay, 

As the moments light advance. 
Bids us revel, sport, and play, 
Raise the song, or lead the dance. 
Come, sportive Love, and sacred Friendship come, 
Help us to celebrate our harvest home ; 
In vain the year its annual tribute pours, [hours. 
Unless you grace the scene, and lead the laughing 



MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES. 



Margaretta v. Bleecker Tvas a daugh- 
ter of Mrs. Anne Eliza Bleecker, of whose 
life and writings a notice has been given in 
the preceding pages.* She was born at Tom- 
hanick in 1771, and was about twelve years 
of age when her mother died. Her educa- 
tion, which had thus far been conducted with 
care and judgment, was continued under the 
best teachers of New York, where she made 
her appearance in society, soon after the close 
of the Revolution, as a highly accomplished 
girl, of the best connexions, and a liberal for- 
tune. Her home was thronged with suitors, 
but, with a perversity which is often paral- 
leled, she preferred the least deserving, one 
Dr. PeterFaugeres, an adventurer who shone 
in drawing rooms in the flimsy and worn-out 
costume of French infidelity, and him, in op- 
position to the wishes of her father, she mar- 
ried. Mr. Bleecker died in 1795, and Fau- 
geres squandered the estate, and treated his 
wife in a scandalous manner, until 1798, when 
she was relieved of his presence by the yellow 
fever. It seems, from some allusions in her 
poems to the wretch Thomas Paine, as well 
as from her admiration of Faugeres, that she 
had a deeper sympathy with the vulgar skep- 
ticism of the time than was possible for a 
woman who united much capacity with vir- 
tue ; bu'. observation of its tendencies had 
perhaps led her to reflection, and she now 
came to believe that an inquiring and trust- 
ing spirit is quite as profound as one that 
doubts and despises. She became a teacher 
in an academ.y at New Brunswick, but her 
constitution v/as broken and her mind enfee- 
bled by her misfortunes, and she died, in the 
twenty-ninth year of her age, in Brooklyn, 
on the ninth of January, 1801. 

Mrs. Faugeres in 1793 edited the posthu- 
mous works of her mother, to which she ap- 
pended several of her own compositions, in 
prose and verse. In 1795 she published 
Belisarius, a tragedy, in five acts, which is 
spoken of in the preface as her " first dramat- 
ic performance," as if she contemplated the 

*Ante, p. 24 



devotion of her attention to this kind of liter- 
ature ; and in the third ntunber of the New 
York Weekly Magazine, for the same year, 
is an extract from a MS. comedy by her, but 
this appears never to have been printed. 

Belisarius' was evidently suggested by the 
fine romance of Marmontel, but Mrs. Fau- 
geres combines the tradition of the putting 
out of the eyes of the great Byzantine, with 
that of Theophanes and Malala, that after a 
short imprisonment he was restored to his 
honors. Though unsuited to the stage, this 
tragedy has considerable merit, and is much 
superior to the earlier compositions of the 
author. The style is generally dignified and 
correct, and free from the extravagant decla- 
mation into which the subject would have 
seduced a writer of less taste and judgment. 
We have but a glimpse of the private in- 
trigues that are revealed in the secret his- 
tory by Procopius. Some time after the mar- 
riage of Belisarius to Antonina, they are re- 
ferred to in conversation between Arsaces, 
a Bulgarian noble, and Julia, the niece of 
Justinian, of whom Belisarius had been a 
lover : 

Arsaces. My darling Julia, drop these vain regrets, 
For Belisarius is no longer thine ; 
Is he not wedded 1 

Julia. Too sure he is, and therefore I will weep, 
For he wa-s mine, and naught but wicked craft 
E'er rent him from my bosom. Oh, my love! 
Oh, my betrothed love ! how are we severed ! 
Cursed be the monsters of iniquity 
Who thus have burst the tenderest bonds asunder 
Affecrion ever knew ! Thou art betrayed : 
Dungeons, and poverty, and shame, are thine 
And everlasting blindness ; while I, deserted. 
Roam round the world 

In the second act Belisarius appears, accord- 
ing to the narrative of Tzetzes, in the char- 

* of Belisarius there were probably printed onlyenough 
copies for subscribers, and it is now among the rarest of 
American books. While making a collection of nearly 
eight hundred volumes of poetiy and verses written in 
this country, 1 never saw it ; and Dimlap, who was a very 
industrious collector of plays, alludes to it in his History 
of the American Theatre, as a work which had eluded 
his research. It is not in any of our public libraries— 
which, indeed, are among the last places to be examined 
for American Uterature— and the only copy I have seen^ 
the one now before me — is from the curious collection of 
Henry A. Brady, Esq. 

35 



36 



MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES. 



acter of a beggar, and in wandering through 
the country he is thus introduced to Gelimer, 
the captive king of Carthage, whom he him- 
self had long before brought in triumph to 
Byzantium : 

Gelimer, at daybreak, in a garden. — Enter Amala, liia wife. 

Amala. 'T is yet too soon to labor, love ; come, sit. 
This air blows fresh, and these sweet, bending flow- 
Heavy with dew, shed such a fragrance round, [ers, 
And so melodious sings the early lark, 
'T would be a pity not to enjoy the hour. 
Come, sit upon this sod. See, the morn breaks 
In streams of quivering light upon the hills, 
And the loose clouds, in changeful colors gay, 
Now tinged with crimson, and with amber now. 
Sail slow along the brightening horizon. 

Gelimer. Yes, my Amala, 'tis a lovely morn. 
And might inspire me with these calm ideas, 
But that my thoughts are dwelling on the stranger, 
Who claimed your hospitality, last night. 
You said he was a soldier — old, and poor — 
And that excites conipassion ; for I grieve 
To see a veteran, who has spent his strength 
In the big perils of uncertain war. 
Far fi-om his home, his country, and his friends ; 
Who oft has slept upon the frozen earth, 
And suffered grievous want....That he, whose age 
Has made him bald, and chilled his sickly veins. 
And rendered him quite useless to himself, 
Should be turned out upon the world, adrift, 
To seek a scanty sustenance from alms !.... 
'T is much to be lamented. 

In the following scene the degraded chiefs 
recognise each other, and Belisarius relates 
the story of his barbarous punishment : 

Bel. When I first heard it my full heart beat slow. 
My wonted fortitude forsook me; and when I thought 
It was Justinian that urged the blow. 
Casting my hopeless eyes to yon bright heaven, 
As 'twere to take a lasting leave of light, 
I wrung my hands, and bathed me in my tears. 
The executioner, touched with my sorrows. 
Sank on the ground and cried, " You are undone ! 
Wretched old man, why does your heart not break, 
And give you a release from such a wo I" 
But it is past, and, tranquil as the flood 
When gently kissed by Twilight's softlicst gale, 
My spirit rests, and scarce consents to weep 
When Memoiy would the piteous tale recall. 

That most striking virtue of Belisarius, 
which appeared to Gibbon "above or below 
the character of a man," is happily illustra- 
ted, though by incidents that would seem 
very extraordinary were the historians upon 
this point less explicit and particular. The 
Prince of Bulgaria endeavors to enlist the 
blind old general against the Byzantines, 
and causes his proposals to be accompanied 
with a flourish of martial instruments, to 
renew in him 

— the memory of past scenes, 



When his proud steed, champing his golden bit. 
Bore him o'er heaps of slaughtered enemies. 
While vanquished thousands at his presence knelt 
And kissed the dust o'er which the conqueror rode. 

Belisarius says, declining — 

Shall I now 
Sully the glories of a long life's toil. 
And justify the cruelty of my foes \ 

And then — 

— Music, such as lulls my wayward cares. 
Is often heard within the peasant's hamlet, 
What time gray Twilight veils the eastern sky, 
When the blithe maiden carols rustic songs 
To soothe the infirmities of peevish age. 
Or, when the moon shines on the dew-gemm'd plain. 
Attunes her voice to chant some lightsome air 
For those who dance upon the tufted green. 
Such ai'e the sfrains I love, and such as float 
On the cool gale from a far mountain's side, 
Where some lone shepherd fills his simple pipe, 
Calling the echoes from their dewy beds. 
To chase mute sleep away. Ah ! blessed is he 
If his choice melody be ne'er disturbed 
By the death-breathing trumpet's woful tone. 

Prince. If thou wert ever thus averse to war, 
General, why didst thou fight 1 

Bel. To purchase peace, not to extend dominion. 
Peace was the crown of conquest. 

The heroine of the piece is the empress The- 
odosia, who in the third act inquires of her 
creature Barsames the result of his last ef- 
forts to detect a conspiracy : 

Theodosia, Did you see Phaedrusl 
Barsames. Yes : but he did not know me. 
He sat upon a heap of mouldering bones 
With his shrunk hands, thus, folded on his breast ; 
And his sunk eyes were fixed on the ground 
Half shut, and o'er his bosom sti'eamed his beard, 
Hoary and long. I twice accosted him 
Ere he regarded me ; then, looking up, 
He eyed me with a vague and senseless gaze. 
And heavmg a most lamentable sigh. 
Dropped his pale face upon his breast again. 

Theo. r II go myself, this moment, and give orders 
For his removal to some cheerfnl place. 
Where kind attendance, and my best physician, 

May woo his scattered senses back again 

When Reason rises cloudless in his brain. 
Embracing courteous Hope, then I will go 

And break the vain enchantment 

This will be sweet revenge ! Then let him try 
If the bright wit that jeered a woman's foibles 
Will light the dungeon where her fury dwells ! 

After the publication of Belisarius, Mrs. 
Faugeres was an occasional contributor to 
the New York Monthly Magazine, and some 
other periodicals. She appears to have been 
a favorite among her literary acquaintances, 
and is frequently referred to in their pub- 
lished poems in terms of sympathy and ad- 
miration. 



MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES. 



37 



THE HUDSON. 

FROM A POEM PUBLISHED IN 1793. 

Nits's beauteous waves and Tiber's swelling tide 

Have been recorded by the hand of Fame, 
And various floods, which through earth's channels 
glide, 

From some enraptured bard have gained a name : 
E'en Thames and Wye have been the poet's theme, 

And to their charms has many a hai'p been strung. 
Whilst, oh ! hoar Genius of old Hudson's stream. 

Thy mighty river never has been sung ! 
Say, shall a female string her trembUng lyre. 

And to thy praise devote the adventurous song 1 
Fired with the theme, her genius shall asphe, 

And the notes sweeten as they float along 

Through many a blooming wild and woodland green 

The Hudson's sleeping waters winding stray ; 
Now inongst the hills its silvery waves are seen. 

Through arching willows now they steal away : 
Now more majestic rolls the ample tide. 

Tall waving elms its clovery borders shade, 
And many a stately dome, in ancient pride 

And hoary grandeur, there exalts its head. 
There trace the marks of Culture's sunburnt hand. 

The honeyed buckwheat's clustering blossoms 
view — 
Dripping rich odors, mark the beard-grain bland, 

The loaded orchard, and the flax-field blue ; 
The grassy hill, the quivering poplar grove, 

The copse of hazel, and the tufted bank. 
The long green valley where the white flocks rove, 

The jutting rock, o'erhung with ivy dank : 
The tall pines waving on the mountain's brow. 

Whose lofty spires catch day's last lingeringbeam ; 

The bending willow weeping o'er the stream, 
The brook's soft gurglings, and the garden's glow. 

Low sunk between the AUeganian hills, 

For many a league the sullen waters glide, 

And the deep murmur of the crowded tide 
With pleasing awe the wondering voyager fills. 
On the green summit of yon lofty cUft 

A peaceful runnel gurgles clear and slow, 
Then down the craggy steep-side dashing swift, 

Tumultuous falls in the white surge below. 
Here spreads a clovery lawn its verdure far, 

Beyond it mountains vast their forests rear. 
And long ere Day hath left her burnished car, 

The dews of night have shed their odors there. 
There hangs a lowering rock across the deep ; 

Hoai'se roar the waves its broken base around ; 
Through its dark caverns noisy whirlwinds sweep, 

While Hon-or startles at the fearful sound. 
The shivering sails that cut the fluttering breeze, 

Ghde through these winding rocks with airy 
sweep. 
Beneath the cooling glooms of waving trees, 

And sloping pastures specked with fleecy sheep. 



VERSES 

ADDRESSED TO THE ME,1IBERS OF THE CINCINNATI 
OF THE STATE OF NEW rOllK ON THE 4TH OF JULY. 

Come, round Freedom's sacred shrine, 
Flowery garlands let us twine ; 
And while we our tribute bring, 
Grateful psaus let us sing : 
Sons of Freedom, join the lay — 
'T is Columbia's natal day ! 

Banish all the plagues of life. 
Fretful Care and restless Strife ; 
Let the memory of your woes 
Sink this day in sweet repose ; 
Even let Grief itself be gay 
On Columbia's natal day. 

Late a despot's cruel hand 
Sent oppression through your land ; 
Piteous plaints and tearful moan 
Found not access to his throne ; 
Or if heard, tVie poor, forlorn. 
Met but with reproach and scorn. 

Paine, with eager virtue, then 

Snatched from Truth her diamond pen — ■ 

Bade the slaves of tyranny 

Spurn their bonds, and dare be free. 

Glad they burst their chains away : 

'Twas Columbia's natal day! 

Vengeance, who had slept too long. 
Waked to vindicate our wrong ; 
Led her veterans to the field. 
Sworn to perish ere to yield : 
Weeping Memory yet can tell 
How they fought and how they fell ! 

Lured by virtuous Washington — 
Liberty's most favored son — 
Victory gave your sword a sheath, 
Binding on your brows a wreath 
Which can never know decay 
While you hail this bUssful day. 

Ever be its name revered ; 

Let the shouts of joy be heard 

From where Hampshire's bleak winds blow, 

Down to Georgia's fervid glow ; 

Let them all in this agree : 

" Hail the day which made us free !" 

Bend your eyes toward that shore 
Where Bellona's thunders roar : 
There your Gallic brethren see 
Struggling, bleeding to be free ! 
Oh ! unite your prayers that they 
May soon announce their natal day. 
thou Power ! to whom we owe 
All the blessings that we know. 
Strengthen thou our rising youth. 
Teach them wisdom, vhtue, truth — 
That when we are sunk in clay, 
They may keep this glorious day ! 



ELIZA TOWNSEND. 



Eliza Townsend, descdhded from a stock 
that for two centuries has occupied a distin- 
guished and honorable position in American 
society, was the first native poet of lier sex 
whose writings commanded the applause of 
judicious critics; — the first whose poems 
evinced any real inspiration, or rose from 
the merely mechanical into the domain of 
art. The late Mr. Nicholas Biddle, whose 
judgment in literature was frequently illus- 
trated by the most admirable criticisms, once 
mentioned to me that a prize ode which Miss 
Townsend wrote for the Port Folio while he 
himself was editor of that miscellany, soon 
after the death of Dennie, was in his opinion 
the finest poem of its kind which at that 
time had been written in this country, and 
many of her other pieces received the best 
approval of the period, but, as she kept her 
authorship a secret, without securing for her 
any personal reputation. 

She was born in Boston, and her youth 
was passed in the troubled times which suc- 
ceeded the Revolution, when our own coun- 
try was distracted by the strifes of parties, 
and Europe was convulsed with the tumult- 
uous overthrows of governments whose sub- 
jects had caught from us the spirit of liberty. 
She sympathized with the feelings which 
were popular in New England, in regard 
both to our own and to foreign aflairs, as is 
shown by her Occasional Ode, written in June, 
1809, in which Napoleon is denounced with 
a vehemence and power which remind tis of 
the telebrated ode of Southey, written nearly 
five years afterward, during the negotiations 
of 1814. This poem was first printed in the 
seventh volume of the Monthly Anthology, 
and though it bears the marks of hasty com- 
position, in some minute defects, it is alto- 
gether a fine performance. The splendid ge- 
nius of Napoleon was not yet revealed in all 
its magnificence even to those who were the 
immediate instruments of his will, but to all 
maukmd his name was a word of division, 
and in this country those whose opinions 
were fruits of anything else than passion 
were commonly led by a conservative spirit 



to distrust the man and to credit the worst 
views of his actions. This was most true 
in Boston, where, at the beginning of Mr. 
Madison's administration. Miss Townsend's 
ode was probably deemed not less just than 
poetical. 

Among the pieces which she published 
about this time was Another Castle in the 
Air, suggested by Professor Frisbie's agree- 
able poem referred to in its title ; Stanzas 
commemorative of Charles Brockden Brown ; 
Lines on the Burning of the Richmond The- 
atre ; and a poem to Southey, upon the ap- 
pearance of his Curse of Kehama. At a later 
period she published several poems of a more 
religious cast, by one of which, The Incom- 
prehensibility of God, she is best known. Of 
this, the Rev. Dr. Cheever remarks, that " it 
is equal in grandeur to the Thanatopsis of 
Bryant," and that " it will not sufl'er by com- 
parison with the most sublime pieces of 
WordsAvorth or of Coleridge." 

Miss Townsend has not written, at least 
for the public, in many years, and there has 
been no collection of the poems with which, 
in the earlier part of this century, she en- 
riched The Monthly Anthology, The Port 
Folio, The Unitarian Miscellany, and other 
periodicals which were then supported by the 
contributions of the youthful Adams, Allston, 
Buckminster, Webster, Ticknor, Greenwood, 
Edward Charming, Alexander Everett, and 
others of whose early hopes the fulfilment is 
written in our intellectual history. Such a 
collection would undoubtedly be well re- 
ceived. 

There is a religious and poetical dignity, 
with all the evidences of a fine and richly- 
cultivated miderstanding, in most of the po- 
ems of Miss Townsend, which entitle her 
to be ranked among the distinguished liter- 
ary women who were her contemporaries, 
and in advance of all who in her own coun- 
try preceded her. 

She is still living, in a secluded manner, 
with her sister, also maiden, in the old fam- 
ily mansion in Boston. They are the last of 

their race. 

38 



ELIZA TOWNSEND. 



39 



AN OCCASIONAL ODE. 

WRIITEX IS jrSE, 1S)9 

First of all created things, 

God's eldest bom, oh tell me, Time ! 
E'er since within that car of thine. 
Drawn by those steeds, whose speed divine, 
Through every state and every clime, 

?for pause nor rest has known, 
Mongst all the scenes long since gone by 
Since first thou opedst thy closeless eye, 
Did its scared glances ever rest 
Upon a vision so unblest. 
So fearful, as our own ? 

If thus thou start'st in wild afiright 
At what thyself hast brought to hght, 
Oh yet relent ! nor still unclose 
New volumes vast of human woes. 

Thy bright and bounteous brother, yonder Strn, 

WTiose course coeval still with thine doth run. 
Sickening at the sights unholy. 
Frightful crime, and frantic folly. 
By thee, presumptuous ! with deUght 
Forced upon his awftJ sight, 
Abandons half his regal right. 
And yields the hated world to night. 

And even when through the honored day 

He still benignly deigns to sway, 

High o'er the horizon prints his burnished tread. 
Oft calls his clouds. 
With sable shrouds. 

To hide his glorious head! 

And Luna, of yet purer view. 
His sister and his regent too, 
Beneath whose mild and sacred reign 
Thou darest display thy deeds profane. 
Pale and appalled, has frowned her fears. 
Or veiled her brightness in her tears ; 
A\'^e all her starry court, attendant near. 
Only glance, and disappear. 

But thou, relentless ! not in thee 

These horrors wake humanity : 

Though sun, and moon, and stars combined. 

Ne'er did it change thy fatal mind. 

Nor e'er thy wayward steps retrace. 

Nor e'er restrain thy coursers' race. 

Nor e'er etiace the blood thou'dst shed, 

Nor raise to life the murdered dead. 

Is 't not enough, thou spoiler, tell ! 

That, subject to thy stem behest. 
The might of ancient empire fell. 

And sunk to drear and endless rest ! 

Fallen is the Roman eagle's flight. 

The Grecian glory sunk in night. 
And prostrate arts and arms no more withstand : 
Those own thy Vandal flame and these thy conq'ring 
Then be Destruction's sable banner furled, [hand. 
Nor wave its shadows o'er the modem world ! 

In vain the prayer. Still opens wide. 
Renewed, each former tragic scene 

Of Time's dark drama ; while beside 

Grief and Despair their vigils keep. 

And Memory only hves to weep 

The mouldering dust of what has been. 



How nameless now the once-famed earth, 
That gave to Kosciuszko birth — 
The pillared realm that proudly stood. 
Propped by his worth, cemented by his blood ! 

As towers the Hon of the wood 
O'er all surrounding living things. 
So, mid the herd of vulgar kings. 

The daimtless Dalecarlian stood. 
*' Pillowed by flint, by damps enclosed," 
Upon the mine's cold lap reposed. 

Yet firm he followed Freedom's plan; 
" Dared with eternal night reside. 
And threw inclemency aside," 

Conqu'ror of nature as of man ! 
And earned by toils unknown before. 
Of Blood and Death, the crown he wore. 
That radiant crown, whose flood of light 
Dlumined once a nation's sight — - 
Spirit of Vasa ! this its doom ? 
Gleams in a dimgeon's hving tomb ! 

Where'er the fiightened mind can fly. 
But nearer ruins meet her eye. 

Ah ! not Arcadia's pictured scene 
Could more the poet's dream engage. 

Nor manners more befitting seem 
The vision of a golden age. 
Than where the chamois loved to roam 
Through old Helvetia's nigged home, 
WTiere Uri's echoes loved to swell 
To kindred rocks the name of Tell, 
And pastoral girls and rustic swains 
Were simple as their native plains. 
Nor mild alone, but bold the mind. 
The soldier and the shepherd joined — 
The Roman heraldry restored. 
The crook was quartered with the sword. 
Their seedtime cheerful labor stored. 
Plenty piled their vintage board. 
Peace loved their daily fold to keep, 
Contentment tranquillized their sleep — 
Till through those giant Guards of Stone,* 
Where Freedom fixed her " mountain-throne," 
Battle's bloodhounds forced their way 
And made the human flock their prey ! 

Is it Fact, or Fancy tells. 

That now another mandate 's gone 1 
Hark ! even now those fated wheels 

Roll the rapid niin on ! 
Lo, where the generous and the good. 

The heart to feel, the hand to dare : 
Iberia pours her noblest blood, 

Iberia lifts her holiest prayer ! 
The while from all her rocks and valas 

Her peasant bands by thousands rise : 
Their altar is their native plains. 

Themselves the willing sacrifice. 
While HE, the " strangest birth of time," 
Red with gore, and grim with crime, 
'V^Tiose fate more prodigies attend. 
And in whose course more terrors blend. 
And o'er whose birth more portents lower. 
Than ever crowned. 
In lore renowned, 

• The Alps. 



40 



ELIZA TOWNSEND. 



The Macedonian's natal hour ! 

Now here, now there, he takes his stand, 

The stablished earth his footsteps jar ; 
Goads to the fight his vassal band. 
While ebbs or flows, at his command, 

The torrent of the war ! 

Could the bard, whose powers sublime 

Scaled the heights of epic glory, 
And rendered in immortal rhyme 

Of Rome's disgrace the blushing story — 
Where, formed of treason and of woes, 
Pharsalia's gory genius rose — 
Might he again 
Renew the strain 
That once his truant muse had charmed, 
Each foreign tone 

Unwakcd had lain ; 
And patriot Spain 
And Spain alone 
The Spaniard's patriot heart had warmed ! 

Then had the chords proclaimed no more 
His deeds, his death, renowned of yore ; 
Who,* when each hngeiing hope was slain, 
And Freedom fought with Fate in vain. 
Lone in the city, and reft of all. 
While Usurpation stormed the wall. 
The tyrant's entrance scorned to see — 
But died, with dying Liberty. 

Those chords had raised the local strain ; 
That bard a fiUal flight had ta'en ; 
Forgot all else : The ancient past. 
Thick in Oblivion's mists o'ercast. 
Or past and present both combined 
Within the graspings of his mind ; 
In what now is, viewed what hath been ; 
The dead within the living seen : 
Ov^Tied transmigi"ation's strange control, 
In Spaniards owned the Cato soul ; 
And wailed in tones of martial grief 
The valiant band and hero chief, 
Who shai-ed in Saiagossa's doom. 
And made their Utica their tomb ! 
Bright be the amaranth of their fame ! 
May Palafox a Lucan claim ! 

That bard no_more had filled his rhymes 
With Caesar's greatness, Caesar's crimes : 
Another Casar waked the string. 
Alike usurper, traitor, king. 
Another Ccesar 1 rashly said ! 
Forgive the fidsehood, mighty shade ! 
Mongst Julius' treasons, stiU we know 
The faithful friend, the generous foe ; 
And even enmityf could see 
Sojne \irtues of humanity. 

But thou ! by what accursed name 
Shall we denote thy features here 1 

In records of infernal fame 

Where shaU we find thy black compeer 1 

Thou, whose perfidious might of mind 

Nor pily moves nor faith can bind, 

* The younger Cato. 

t " His enemies confess 

The virtues of humanity are Cfflsar's." — Ad. Cato. 



Whose friends, whose followers vainly crave 
That trust which should reward the brave ; 
Whose foes, mid tenfold war's alarms. 
Dread more thy treachery than thine arms : 
The Ishmaelite, mid deserts bred. 
Who robs at last whom first he fed. 
The midnight murderer of the guest 
With whom he shai-ed the morning's feast — > 
This Arab wretch, compared with thee. 
Is honor and humanity ! 

And shall that proud, that ancient land. 

In treasure rich, m pageant grand. 

Land of romance, where sprang of old 

Adventures strange, and champions bold. 

Of holy faith, and gaUant fight. 

And bannered hall, and armored knight, 

And tournament, and minstrelsy, 

The native land of chivaliy ! — 

Shall all these " blushing honors" bloom 

For Corsica's detested son ? 

These ancient worthies own his sway — 

The upstart fiend of yesterday 1 

Oh, for the kingly sword and shield 

That once the ™tor monarch sped. 
What time from Pavia's trophied field 

The royal Frank was captive led ! 
May Charles's laurels, gained for you. 

Ne'er, Spaniards, on your brows espire ; 
Nor the degenerate sons subdue 

The conqu'rors of their nobler sire ! 

None higher mid the zodiac line 

Of sovereigns and of saints you claim, 
Than fair Castilia's star could shine. 

And brighten down the sky of fame. 
Wise, magnanimous, refined, 
Accomphshed friend of hum.an kind. 
Who first the Genoese sail unfurled — 
The mighty mother of an infant world. 
Illustrious Isabel ! — shall thine. 
Thy children, kneel at Gallia's shrine ? 
No ! rise, thou venerated shade. 
In Heaven's own armor bright arrayed, 
Like Pallas to her Grecian band ; 
Nerve every heai't and every hand ; 
Pervious or not to mortal sight, 
Still guard thy gallant offspring's right. 
Display thine asgis from afar. 
And lend a tliunderbolt to wai' ! 

God of battles ! from thy tlirone, 
God of vengeance, aid their cause : 

Make it, conqu'ring One, thine own ! 
'Tis faith, and liberty, and laws. 

'Tis for these they pour their blood — 

The cause of man, the cause of God ! 

Not now avenge, All-righteous Power, 

Peruvia's red and ruined hour : 

Nor mangled Montezuma's head. 

Nor Guatamozin's burning bed. 

Nor give the guiltless up to fate 

For Cort's' crimes, PizaiTo's hate! 

Thou, who beholdst, enthroned afar. 

Beyond the rision of the keenest star. 

Far through creation's ample round. 

The universe's utmost bound ; 



ELIZA TOWNSEND. 



41 



Where war in other shape appears, 
The destined plague of other spheres, 
Other Napoleons arise 
To stahi the earth and cloud the skies ; 
And other reahus hi martial ranks succeed, 
Fight like Iberians, like Iberians bleed. 
It' an end is e'er designed 
The dire destroyers of mankind, 
Oh, be some seraphim assigned 
To breathe it to the patriot mind. 
What Brutus bright in arms arrayed, 
What Corde bares the righteous blade ! 
Or, if the vengeance, not our own. 
Be sacred to ihine arm alone, 
When shall be signed the blest release 
And wearied worlds refreshed with peace ! 
Oh, could the muse but dare to rise 
Far o'er these low and clouded skies. 
Above the threefold heavens to soar. 
And in thy very sight implore ! — 

In vam while angels veil them there, 

While Faith half fears to lift her prayer, 
The glance profane shall Fancy dare 1 
Yet there around, a fearful band, 
Thy ministers of vengeance stand : 
Lo, at thy bidding stalks the storm ; 
The lightning takes a local form ; 
The floods erect their hydra head ; 
The pestilence forsakes his bed ; 
Intolerable light appears to wait, 
And far-off darkness stands in awful state ! 

For thee, Time ! 
If still thou speedst thy march of crime 
'Gainst all that's beauteous or subUme, 
Still provest thyself the sworn ally 
And author of mortality — 

Infunate Earth, too long supine. 
Whilst demon-Uke thou lovedst to ride. 
Ending eveiy work beside. 

Shall live to see the end of thine — 
Her great revenge shall see ! 
By prayer shall move th' Almighty power 
To antedate that final hour 
When the Archangel firm shall stand 
Upon the ocean and the land — 
His crown a radiant rainbow sphere, 
His echoes seven-fold thunders near — 
The last dread fiat to proclaim ; 
Shall swear by His tremendous name, 
Who formed the earth, the heavens and sea. 
Time shall no longer be ! 



TO ROBERT SOUTHEY. 

WRITTEN IN 1812. 

THOU, whom we have known so long, so well, 
Thou who didst hymn the Maid of Arc, and firamed 
Of Thalaba the wild and wondrous song ; 
And in thy later tale of Times of Old, 
Rcmindest us of our own patriarch fathers, 
The Madocs of their age, who planted here 
The cross of Christ — ^and Uberty — and peace ! 
Minstrel of other climes, of higher hopes. 
And hoUer inspirations, who hast ne'er 



From licr high birth debased the goddess Muse, 

To grovel m the dirt of earthly things ; 

But learned to mingle with her human tones 

Some breathings of the hiu-iuonies of heaven ! 

Joyful to meet thee yet again, we hail 

Thy last, thy loftiest lay ; nor chief we thank thee 

For every form of beauty, every light 

Bestowed by brilliancy, and every grace 

That fancy could mvent and taste dispose. 

Or that creating, consummating power, 

Pervading fervor, and mysterious finish. 

That something occult, indefinable, 

By mortals genius named ; the parent sun 

Whence all those rays proceed ; the constant fount 

To feed those streams of mind ; th' informing soul 

Whose influence all are conscious ot^ but none 

Could e'er describe ; whose fine and subtle nature 

Seems like th' aerial forms, which legends say 

Greeted the gifted eye of samt or seer. 

Yet ever mocked the fond inquirer's aim 

To scan their essence ! 

Such alone, we greet not. 
Since genius oft (so oft, the tale is trite) 
Employs its golden ait to varnish vice, 
And bleach depravity, till it shall wear 
The whiteness of the robes of Innocence ; 
And Fancy's self forsakes her truest trade, 
The lapidary for the scavenger ; 
And Taste, regai-JfuI of but half her province, 
Self-sentenced to a partial blindness, turns 
Her notice from the semblance of perfection. 
To fix its hoodwinked gaze on faults alone — 
And like the owl, sees only in the night, 
JVot like the eagle, soars to meet the day. 

Oblivion to all such ! — For thee, we joy 
Thou hast not misapplied the gifts of God, 
Nor yielded up thy powers, illustrious captives. 
To grace the triumph of licentious Wit. 

Once more a female is thy chosen theme ; 
And Kailyal lives a lesson to the sex, 
How more than woman's loveUness may blend 
With all of woman's worth ; with chastened love, 
Magnanimous exertion, patient piety, 
And pure intelUgence. Lo ! from thy wand 
Even faith, and hope, and charity, receive 
Something more filial and more feuiinine. 

Proud praise enough were this ; yet is there more : 
That neath thy splendid Indian canopy. 
By fairy fingers woven, of gorgeous threads, 
And gold and precious stones, tliou hast enwrapped 
Stupendous themes that Truth divine revealed. 
And answering Reason owned : naught more sub- 
Beauteous, or useful, e'er was charactered [lime, 
On Hermes' mystic pillars — Egypt's boast, 
And more, Pythagoras' lesson, when the maze 
Of hieroglyphic meaning awed the world ! 

Could Music's potent charm, as some believed, 
Have warmth to animate the slumbering dead, 
And " lap them in Elysium," second only 
To that which shall await in other worlds. 
How would the native sons of ancient India 
Unclose on thee that wondering, dubious eye, 
Where admiration wars with increduhty ! 
Sons of the morning ! first-born of creation ! 
What would they think of thee — thee, one of us. 



ELIZA TOWNSEND. 



Sprung from a later race, on whom the ends 

Of this our world have come, that thou shouldst pen 

What Varanasi's' venerable towers 

In all their pride and plenitude of power. 

Ere Conquest spread her bloody banner o'er them, 

Or Ruin trod upon their hallowed walls, 

Could ne'er excel, though stored with ethic wisdom, 

And epic mmstrelsy, and sacred lore ! 

For there. Philosophy's Gantamif first 

Taught man to measure mind ; there Valmic hymn'd 

The conqu'ring arms of heaven-descended Kama ; 

And Calidasa and Vyasa there. 

At diiferent periods, but with powers the same. 

The Sanscrit song prolonged — of Nature's works. 

Of human woes, and sacred Chrishna's ways. 

That it should e'er be thine, of Europe born. 

To sing of Asia ! that Hindostan's palms 

Should bloom on Albion's hills, and Brama'sVedasJ 

Meet unconverted eyes, yet unprofaned ! 

And those same brows the classic Thames had bath'd 

Be laved by holy Ganges ! while the lotus, 

Fig-tree, and cusa, of its healing banks, 

Should, with their derva's vegetable rubies, 

Be painted to the hfe !. ...Not truer touches. 

On plane-tree arch above, or roseate carpet. 

Spread out beneath, were ever yet employed 

When theur own vale of Cashmere was the subject, 

Sketched by its own Abdallah ! 

He, II too, of thine owir land, who long since found 
A refuge in his final sanctuary. 
From regal bigotry — could thy voice reach him. 
His awtul shade might greet thee as a brother 
In sentiment and song ; that epic genius, 
From whom the sight of outward things was taken 
By Heaven in mercy — that the orb of vision 
Might totally ttrrn inward — there concentred 
On objects else perhaps invisible. 
Requiring and exhausting all its rays; 
Who (Uke Tiresias, of prophetic fame) 
Talked with Futurity ! — that patiiot poet, 
Poet of paradise, whose daring eye 
Explored " the living throne, the sapphire bla^e," 
" But blasted with excess of hght," retired. 
And left to thee to compass other heavens 
And other scenes of being ! — 

Bard beloved 
Of all who -sirtus love — ^revered by all 
That genius reverence — Southet ! if thou art 
" Gentle as bard beseems," and if thy life 
Be lovely as thy lay, thou wilt not scorn 
This rustic wreath ; albeit 't was entwined 
Beyond the western waters, where I sit 
And bid the wdnds that wait upon their surges. 
Bear- it across them to thine island-home. 
Thou wilt not scorn the simple leaves, though ciUled 
From that traduced, insulted spot of earth. 
Of which thy contumelious brethren oft 
Frame fables, full as monstrous in their kind 
As e'er Mmichausen knew — with all his falsehood, 
Guiltless of all his wit ! Not such art thou — 
Surely thou art not, if, as Rumor tells, 
Thyself in the high hour of hopeful youth 

* The college of Benares 

t Supposed the earliest founder of a philosophic school. 

X Sacred books of the Hindoos. || Milton. 



Had cherished nightly visions of delight. 
And day-dreams of desire, that lured thee on 
To see these sister states, and painted to thee 
Our frowning mountains and our laughing vales, 
The countless beauties of our varied lakes, 
The dim recesses of our endless woods, 
Fit haunt for sylvan deities ; and whispered 
How sweet it were in such deep solitude. 
Where human foot ne'er trod, to raise thy hut, 
To talk to Nature, but to think of man. 
Then thou, perchance, like Scotia's darling son, 
Hadst sung our Pennsylvanian villages. 
Our bold Oneidas, and our tender Gertrudes, 
And smig, like him, thy hsteners into tears. 
Such were thy early musings : other thoughts. 
And happier, doubtless, have concmred to fix thee 
On Britain's venerated shore ; yet still 
Must that young thought be tenderly remembered, 
Even as romantic minds are sometimes said 
To cherish their first love — not that 'twas wisest. 

But that 'twas earhest If that morning dream 

Still lingers to thy noon of Ufe, remember. 
And for its own dear sake, when thou shalt hear 
(As oft, alas ! thou wilt) those gossip tales. 
By lazy Ignorance or inventive Spleen, 
Related of the vast, the varied country. 
We proudly call our own — oh ! then refiite them 
By the just consciousness that still this land 
Has turned no adder's ear toward thy Muse 
That charms so wisely ; that whene'er her tones. 
Mellowed by distance, o'er the waters come. 
They meet a band of listeners — those who hear 
With breath-suspending eagerness, and feel 
With feverish interest. Be this their praise. 
And sure they '11 need no other ! Such there are, 
Who, from the centre of an honest heart, 
Bless thee for ministering to the purest pleasure 
That man, whilst breathing earthly atmosphere. 
In this minority of being, knows — 
That of contemplating immortal verse. 
In fit commimion with immortal Truth ! 



THE INCOMPREHENSIBILITY OF GOD. 

Whehe art thou ? — Tuon ! sotu-ce and support 
That is or seen or felt ; thj'sclf unseen, [of all 
Unfelt, unknown — alas, unknowable ! 
I look abroad among thy works — the sky. 
Vast, distant, glorious with its world of suns — • 
Life-giving earth, and ever-moving main, 
And speaking winds — and ask if these are thee ! 
The stars that twinkle on, the eternal hills. 
The restless tide's outgoing and return. 
The omnipresent and deep-breatliing air — ■ 
Though hailed as gods of old, and only less. 
Are not the Power I seek ; are thine, not thee ! 
I ask thee fi'om the past: if, in the years. 
Since first intelhgence could search its source, 
Or in some former unremembered being, 
(If such, perchance, were mine), did they behold 
And next interrogate Futurity, [thee 1 

So fondly tenanted with better things 
Than e'er experience owned — but both are mute ; 
And Past and Future, vocal on aU else, 



ELIZA TOWNSEND. 



v3 



So full of memories and phantasies, 
Are ileaf and speechless here ! Fatigued, I turn 
From all vain parley with the elements, [ward 
And close mine eyes, and bid the thought turn in- 
From each material thing its anxious guest, 
If, in the stillness of the waiting soul, 
He ma}' vouchsafe Mmself — Spirit to spirit ! 
Thou, at once most dreaded and desired, 
Pavilioned still in darkness, wilt thou hide thee 1 
What though the rash request be fraught with fate. 
Nor human eye may look on tliine and hve ? 
Welcome the penalty ! let that come now. 
Which soon or late must come. For hght like this 
Who would not dai'e to die 1 

Peace, my proud aim, 
And hush the wish that knows not what it asks. 
Await His will, who hath appointed this. 
With every other trial. Be that wiU 
Done now, as ever. For thy curious search, 
And miprepared solicitude to gaze 
On Him — the Unrevealed — learn hence, instead, 
To temper highest hope with humbleness. 
Pass thy novitiate in these outer courts. 
Till rent the veil, no longer separating 
The Holiest of all — as erst, disclosing 
A brighter dispensation ; whose results 
Inefl'able, interminable, tend 
Even to the perfecting thyself — thy kind — 
Till meet for that sublime beatitude, 
By the firm promise of a voice from heaven 
Pledged to the pure in heart ! 



ANOTHER "CASTLE IN THE AIR." 

" To ME, like Phidias, were it given 
To form from clay the man sublime, 

And, like Prometheus, steal from heaven 
The animating spark divine !" 

Thus once in rhapsody you cried : 
As for complexion, form, and air. 

No matter what, if thought preside. 
And fire and feeling mantle there. 

Deep on the tablets of his mind 
Be learning, science, taste, imprest ; 

Let piety a refuge find 

Within the foldings of his breast. 

Let him have suffered much — -since we, 
Alas ! are early doomed to know, 

All human virtue we can see 
Is only perfected through wo. 

Purer the ensuing breeze we find 

When whirlwmds first the skies deform ; 

And hardier grows the mountain hind 
Bleaching beneath the wintry storm. 

But, above all, may Heaven impart 

That talent which completes the whole — 

The finest and the rarest art — 
To analyze a woman's soul. 

Woman — that happy, wretched being. 
Of causeless smile, of nameless sigh. 

So oft whose joys unbidden spring. 

So o£l who weeps, she knows not why ! 



Her piteous griefs, her joys so gay, 
All that afflicts and all that cheers ; 

All her erratic fancy's play. 

Her fluttering hopes, her trembling fears. 

With passions chastened, not subdued, 

Let dull inaction stupid reign ; 
Be his the ardor of the good, 

Their loftier thought and nobler aim. 

Firm as the towering bird of Jove, 
The mightiest shocks of life to bear; 

Yet gentle as the captive dove, 
In social suiiering to share. 

If such there be, to such alone 

Would I thy worth, beloved, resign ; 

Secure, each bliss that time hath known 
Would consummate a lot Uke thine. 

But if this gilded human scheme 
Be but the pageant of the brain. 

Of such slight " stuif" as forms our " dream," 
Which, waking, we must seek in vain. 

Each gift of nature and of art 

Still Hves within thyself enshrined ; 

Thine are the blossoms of the heart. 
And thine the scions of the mind ! 

And if the matchless wreath shall blend 
With foliage other than its own. 

Or, destined not its sweets to lend. 
Shall flourish for thyself alone — > 

Still cultivate the plants with care ; 

From weeds, from thorns, oh keep them free, 
Till, ripened for a purer air. 

They bloom in immortality ! 



AMERICAN SCENERY. 

FROM A POEM ON THE DEATH OF CHARLES 
EROCKDEN BROWN. 



Though Nature, with unsparing hand, 
Has scattered round thy favored land 
Those gifts that prompt the aspiring aim, 
And fan the latent spark to flame : 
Such awful shade of blackening woods, 
Such roaring voice of giant floods, 
Cliils, which the dizzied eagles flee. 
Such cataracts, tumbling to the sea. 
That in this lone and wild retreat 
A CoUins might have fixed his seat. 
Called Horror from the mountain's brow. 
Or Danger from the depths below — 
And then, for those of milder mood. 
Heedless of forest, rock, or flood, 
Gay fields, bedecked with golden grain. 
Rich orchards, bending to the plain, 
Where Sydney's fairy pen had failed, 
Which Mantuan Maro's muse had hailed — 
Yet, midst this luxury of scene. 
These varied charms, this graceful mien. 
Canst thou no hearts, no voices, raise. 
Those charms to feel, those charms to praise ! 



LAVINIA STODDARD. 



Lavinia Stone, a daughter of Mr. Elijah 
Stone, was born in Guilford, Connecticut, 
on the twenty-ninth of June, 1787. While 
she was an infant her father removed to Pat- 
erson, in New Jersey, and here she received, 
besides the careful instructions of an intelli- 
gent and judicious mother, such education 
in the schools as was at the time common to 
the children of farmers. In 1811 she was 
married to Dr. William Stoddard, a man of 
taste and liberal culture, of Stratford, in 
Connecticut, and in the then flourishing vil- 
lage of Troy, on the Hudson, they established 
an academy, which they conducted success- 
fully for several years. Mrs. Stoddard was 
attacked with consumption, and about the 
year 1818 she removed with her family to 
Blakeley, in Alabama, where Dr. Stoddard 
soon after died, leaving her among strangers 



and in poverty. Partially recovering her 
own health, she revisited Troy ; but the se- 
verity of the climate induced her to return to 
Blakeley, where she died in 1820. 

Mrs. Stoddard wrote many poems, which 
were printed anonymously in the public jour- 
nals, or addressed privately to her acquaint- 
ances. She was a woman of piety, benevo- 
lence, and an independent temper ; and the 
fine poem entitled The Soul's Defiance, her 
brother has informed me, "was interesting 
to her immediate friends for the truthfulness 
with which it portrayed her own experience 
and her indomitable spirit, which never 
quailed under any circumstances." This was 
written in a period of suffering and with a 
sense of injury. It is the last of her compo- 
sitions, and perhaps the best. It is worthy 
of George Herbert. 



THE SOUL'S DEFIANCE. 

I s,iTD to Sorrow's awful storm. 

That beat against my bieast. 
Rage on — thou mayst destroy this form. 

And lay it low at rest ; 
But still the spirit that now brooks 

Thy tempest, raging high, 
Uudaunted on its fury looks. 

With steadfast eye. 

I said to Penury's meagre train, 

Come on — your threats I brave ; 
My last poor life-drop you may drain, 

And crush me to the grave ; 
Yet still the spirit that endures 

Shall mock your force the while, 
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours 

With bitter smile. 

I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, 

Pass on — I heed you not ; 
Ye may pursue me till my form 

And being are forgot ; 
Yet still the spirit, which you see 

Undaunted by your wiles, 
Draws from its own nobility 

Its highborn smiles. 

I said to Friendship's menaced blow. 
Strike deep — my heart shall bear ; 

Thou canst but add one bitter wo 
To those already there ; 



Yet still the spirit that sustains 

This last severe distress. 
Shall smile upon its keenest pains, 

And scorn redress. 
I said to Death's uplifted dart. 

Aim sure — oh, why delay 1 
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart — 

A weak, reluctant prey ; 
For still the spirit, firm and free, 

Unruffled by this last dismay, 
Wrapt in its own eternity. 

Shall pass away. 



SONG. 



Ask not from me the sportive jest. 

The mirthful jibe, the gay reflection ; 
These social baubles fly the breast 

That owns the sway of pale Dejection. 
Ask not from me the changing smile, 

Hope's sunny glow, Joy's glittering token. 
It can not now my griefs beguile — 

My soul is dark, my heart is broken I 
Wit can not cheat my heart of wo. 

Flattery wakes no exultation. 
And Fancy's flash but serves to show 

The darkness of my desolation. 
By me no more in masking guise 

Shall thoughtless repartee be spoken ; 
My mind a hopeless ruin lies — 

My soul is dark, my heart is broken ! 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 



Miss Gould is a native of Lancaster, in 
the southern part of Vermont. Her father 
was one of the small company who fought 
in tlie first battle of the Revolution, and in 
the face of all the privations and discourage- 
ments of that long and often hopeless war 
remained in the army until it was disbanded. 
In The Scar of Lexington, The Eevolution- 
ary Soldier's Request, The Veteran and the 
Child, and several other pieces, we suppose 
she has referred to him ; and it is probably 
but a versification of a family incident iu 
which an old man, relating the story of his 
weary campaigns, says to a child — 
" I caiTied my musket, as one that must he 
But loosed from the hold of the dead, or the free. 
And fearless I Ufted my good, trusty sword, 
In the hand of a mortal, the strength of the Lord." 

Miss Gould's history is in a peculiar degree 
and in a most honorable manner identified 
with her father's. In her youth he removed 
to Newburyport, near Boston, and for many 
years before his death, (for the touching 
poem entitled My Lost Father, in the last 
volume of her writings, we presume had 
reference to that event,) she was his house- 
keeper, his constant companion, and the 
chief source of his happiness. 

Miss Gould's poems are short, but they 
are frequently nearly perfect in their kind. 
Nearly all of them appeared originally in 
annuals, magazines, and other miscellanies, 
and their popularity has been shown by the 



subsequent sale of several collective editions. 
The first volume she published came out in 
1832, the second in 1S35, and the third in 
1841 ; and a new edition, embracing many 
new poems, is now (1848) in preparation. 

Her most distinguishing characteristic is 
sprightliness. Her poetical vein seldom 
rises above the fanciful, but in her vivacity 
there is both wit and cheerfulness. She 
needs apparently but the provocation of a 
wider social inspiration to become very cle- 
ver and apt in jeux d'esprit and epigrams, 
as a few specimens which have found their 
way into the journals amply indicate. It 
is however in such pieces as Jack Frost, 
The Pebble and the Acorn, and other effu- 
sions devoted to graceful details of nature, 
or suggestive incidents in life, that we rec- 
ognise the graceful play of her muse. Often 
by a dainty touch, or lively prelude, the gen- 
tle raillery of her sex most charmingly re- 
veals itself, and in this respect Miss Gould 
manifests a decided individuality of genius. 

Miss Gould seems as fond as -ffisop or La 
Fontaine of investing every thing in nature 
with a human intelligence. It is surprising 
to see how frequently and how happily the 
birds, the insects, the trees and flowers and 
pebbles are made her colloquists. Her poems 
could be illustrated only by some such in- 
genious artists as those who have recently 
amusedParis with Scenes de la Vie Puhlique 
et Privee des Animaux. 



A NAME IN THE SAND. 

Alone I walked the ocean strand; 
A pearly shell was in my hand : 
I stooped and wrote upon the sand 

My name — the year — ^the day. 
As onward from the spot I passed, 
One lingering look behind I cast : 
A wave came rolling high and fast, 

And washed my lines away. 

And so, methought, 'twill shortly be 
With every mark on earth from me : 
A wave of dark Obhvion's sea 



Will sweep across the place 
Where I have trod the sandy shore 
Of Time, and been to be no more. 
Of me — my day — the name I bore. 

To leave nor track nor trace. 

And j'et, with Him wdio counts the sands, 
And holds the waters in his hands, 
I know a lasting record stands. 

Inscribed against my name. 
Of all this mortal part has wrought ; 
Of all this thinking soul has thought ; 
And from these fleeting moments caught 

For glory or for shame. 

45 



46 



HANNAH r. GOULD. 



CHANGES ON THE DEEP. 

A BiiLANT ship ! and trim and tight 
Across the deep she speeds away, 

While mantled with the golden light 
The sun throws back at close of day. 

And who, that sees that stately ship 

Her haughty stem in ocean dip, 

Has ever seen a prouder one 

Illumined by a setting sun 1 

The breath of summer, sweet and soft. 
Her canvass swells, while, wide and fair, 

And floating from her mast aloft. 
Her flag plays oflF on gentle air. 

And, as her steady prow divides 

The waters to her even sides. 

She passes, like a bird, between 

The peaceful deep and sky serene. 

And now gray twilight's tender veil 

The moon wiih shafts of silver rends ; 
And down on billow, deck, and sail. 

Her placid lustre gently sends. 
The stars, as if the arch of blue 
Were pierced to let the glory through, 
From their bright world look out and vrin 
The thoughts of man to enter in. 

And many a heart that's warm and true 

That noble ship bears on with pride ; 
While, mid the many forms, are two 

Of passing beauty, side by side. 
A fair young mother, standing by 
Her bosom's lord, has fixed her eye, 
With his, upon the blessed star 
That points them to their home afar. 

Their thoughts fly foi tli to those, who there 

Are waiting now, with joy to hail 
The moment that shall grant their prayer, 

And heave in sight their coming sail. 
For, many a time the changeful queen 
Of night has vanished, and been seen, 
Since, o'er a foreign shore to roam. 
They passed from that dear, native home. 

The babe, that on its father's breast 

Has let its little eyelids close. 
The mother bears below to rest. 

And sinks with it in sweet repose. 
The while a sailor climbs the shroud, 
And in the distance spies a cloud : 
Low, like a swelling seed, it Ues, 
From which the towering storm shall rise. 
The powers of air are now about 

To muster from their hidden caves ; 
The winds, unchained, come rushing out. 

And into mountains heap the waves. 
Upon the sky the darkness spreads ! 
The Tempest on the Ocean treads ; 
And yawning caverns are its track 
Amid the waters wild and black. 

Its voice — ^but who shall give the sounds 
Of that dread voice 1 — The ship is dashed 

In roaring depths — and now she bounds 
On high, by foaming surges lashed. 



And how is she the storm to bide t 
Its sweeping wings are strong and vpide ! 
The hand of man has lost control 
O'er her — his work is for the soul ! 

She 's in a scene of Natiire's war : 

The winds and waters are at strife ; 
And both with her contending for 
The brittle thread of human hfe 
That she contains ; while sail and shroud 
Have yielded, and her head is bowed. 
Then who that slender thread shall keep 
But He whose finger moves the deep 1 

A moment — and the angry blast 

Has done its work and hurried on. 
With parted cables, shivered mast — ■ 
With riven sides, and anchor gone, 
Behold the ship in ruin lie ; 
While from the waves a piercing ciy 
Surmounts the tumult high and vrild. 
And shouts to heaven, " My child ! my child !" 

The mother in the whelming surge 

Lifts up her infant o'er the sea. 
While lying on the awful verge 

Where time unveils eternity — 
And calls to Mercy, firora the skies 
To come and rescue, while she dies. 
The gift that, with her fleeting breath, 
She offers from the gates of death. 

It is a call for Heaven to hear. 

Maternal fondness sends above 
A voice, that in her Father's ear 

Shall enter quick, for God is love. 
In such a moment, hands like these 
Their Maker with their offering sees ; 
And for the faith of such a breast 
He will the blow of death arrest ! 

The moon looks pale fi-om out the cloud, 

While Mercy's angel takes the form 
Of him, who, mounted on the shroud. 

Was first to see the coming storm. 
The sailor has a ready arm 
To bring relief, and cope with harm ; 
Though rough his hand, and nerved with steel, 
His heart is warm and quick to feel. 

And see him, as he braves the fi-own 
That sky and sea each other give ! 

Behold him where he plunges down. 
That child and mother yet may live. 

And plucks them irom a closing grave ! 

They 're saved ! they 're saved ! the maddened 
wave 

licaps foaming up, to find its prey 

Snatched fi-om its mouth and borne away. 

They 're saved ! they 're saved ! but where is he, 
Who lulled his fearless babe to sleep ! 

A floating plank on that wild sea 
Has now his vital spark to keep I 

But, by the wan, afittighted moon. 

Help comes to him ; and he is soon 

Upon the deck with living men 

To clasp that smiling boy again. 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 



47 



And now can He, who only knows 
Each human breast, behold alone 

What pure and grateful incense goes 
From that sad wreck to his high throne. 

The twain, whose hearts are truly one, 

Will early teach their prattling son 

Upon his little heart to bear 

The sailor to his God, in prayer : 

" O Thou, who in thy hand dost hold 

The winds and waves, that wake or sleep, 
Thy tender arms of mercy fold 

Around the seamen on the deep ! 
And, when their voyage of life is o'er, 
May they be welcomed to the shore 
Whose peaceful streets with gold are paved, 
-And angels sing, 'They're saved! — they're 
saved !' " 



THE SCAR OF LEXINGTON. 

With cherub smile, the prattling boy, 
Who on the veteran's breast reclines, 

Has thrown aside his favorite toy. 
And round his tender finger tvrines 

Those scattered locks, that, with the flight 

Of fourscore years, are snowy white ; 

And, as a scar arrests his view, 

He cries, " Grandpa, what wounded you V 

" My child, 't is five-and-fifty years 
This very day, this very hour, 

Since, from a scene of blood and tears. 
Where valor fell by hostile power, 

I saw retire the setting sun 

Behind the hills of Lexington ; 

While pale and lifeless on the plain 

My brothers lay, for freedom slain ! 

" And ere that fight, the first that spoke 
In thunder to our land, was o'er. 

Amid the clouds of fire and smoke, 
I felt my garments wet with gore ! 

'Tis since that dread and wild affray, 

That trj'ing, dark, eventful day. 

From this calm April eve so far, 

I wear upon my cheek the scar. 

" When thou to manhood shall be grown. 

And I am gone in dust to sleep. 
May freedom's rights be still thine own, 

And thou and thine in quiet reap 
The unblighted product of the toil 
In which my blood bedewed the soil ! 
And, while those fruits thou shalt enjoy, 
Bethink thee of this scar, my boy. 

" But, should thy country's voice be heard 

To bid her children fly to arms, 
Gird on thy gi'andsire's trusty sword : 
And, undismayed by war's alarms, 
Remember, on the battle field, 
I made the hand of God my shield : 
And be thou spared, like me, to tell 
What bore thee up, while others fell !" 



THE SNOWPLAKE. 



" Now, if I fall, will it be my lot 

To be cast in some lone and lowly spot, 

To melt, and to sink unseen, or forgot 1 

And there will my course be ended 1" 
'T was this a feathery Snowflake said, 
As down through measureless space it strayed, 
Or as, half by dalliance, half afraid, 

It seemed in mid air suspended. 

" Oh, no !" said the Earth, " thou shalt not lie 
Neglected and lone on my lap to die. 
Thou pure and deUcate child of the sky ! 

For thou wilt be safe in my keeping. 
But, then, I must give thee a lovelier form — 
Thou wilt not be a part of the wintry storm, 
But revive, when the sunbeams are yellow and 
warm, 

And the flowers from my bosom are peeping ! 

" And then thou shalt have thy choice, to be 
Restored in the hly that decks the lea, 
In the jessamine bloom, the anemone. 

Or aught of thy spotless whiteness ; 
To melt, and be cast in a glittering bead 
With the pearis that the night scatters over the 

mead. 
In the cup where the bee and the firefly feed, 

Regaining thy dazzling brightness. 

"I'll let thee awake from thy transient sleep. 
When Viola's mild blue eye shall weep, 
In a tremulous tear ; or, a diamond, leap 

In a drop from the unlocked fountain ; 
Or, leaving the valley, the meadow, and heath. 
The streamlet, the flowers, and all beneath, 
Go up and be wove in the silvery wreath 

Encircling the brow of the mountain. 

" Or wouldst thou return to a home in the skies. 
To shine in the Iris I'll let thee arise. 
And appear in the many and glorious dyes 

A pencil of sunbeams is blending ! 
But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth, 
I '11 give thee a new and vernal birth, 
When thou shalt recover thy primal worth, 

And never regret descending !" 

" Then I will drop," said the trusting Flake ; 
" But, bear it in mind, that the choice I make 
Is not in the flowers nor the dew to wake ; 

Nor the mist, that shall pass with the morning. 
For, things of thyself, they will die with thee ; 
But those that are lent from on high, like me. 
Must rise, and will hve, from thy dust set fi'ee, 

To the regions above returning. 

" And if true to thy word and just thou art, 
Like the spirit that dwells in the hohest heart, 
Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart. 

And return to my native heaven. 
For I would be placed in the beautiful bow, 
From time to time, in thy sight to glow ; 
So thou mayst remember the Flake of Snow 

By the promise that God hath given !" 



48 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 



THE WINDS. 

We come ! we come ! and ye feel our might, 
As we're hastening on in our boundless flight, 
And over the mountains and over the deep 
Our broad, invisible pinions sweep, 
Like the spirit of Liberty, wild and free ! 
And ye look on our works, and own 'tis we; 
Ye call us the Winds : but can ye tell 
Whither we go, or where we dwell 1 

Ye mark, as we vary our forms of power, 
And fell the forests, or fan the flower, 
When the harebell moves, and the rush is bent, 
When the tower 's o'erthrown, and the oak is rent, 
As we waft the bark o'er the slumbering wave. 
Or huiTy its crew to a watery grave ; 
And ye say it is we ! — but can ye trace 
The wandering winds to their secret place 1 

And, whether our breath be loud or high. 
Or come in a soft and balmy sigh. 
Our threatenings fill the soul with fear. 
Or our gentle whisperings woo the ear 
With music aerial, still 'tis we. 
And ye list and ye look ; but what do ye see 1 
Can ye hush one sound of our voice to peace. 
Or waken one note wiien our numbers cease 1 

Our dwelling is in the Almighty's hand ; 
We come and we go at his command. 
Though joy or sorrow may mark our track, 
His will is our guide, and we look not back : 
And if, in our wratli ye would turn us away, 
Or win us in gentle airs to play. 
Then lift up your hearts to Him who binds 
Or frees, as lie will, the obedient winds. 



THE FROST. 

The Frost looked forth one still, clear night. 
And whispered, " Now I shall be out of sight : 
So, through the valley, and over the height, 

In silence I'll take my way. 
I will not go on like that blustering ti-ain — 
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain — 
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain ; 

But I'll be as busy as they." 

Then he flew to the mountain and powder'd its crest; 
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest 
In diamond beads ; and over the breast 

Of the quivering lake he spread 
A coat of mail, that it need not fear 
The downward point of many a spear 
That he hung on its margin, far and near. 

Where a rock could rear its head. 

He went to the vfindows of those who slept, 
And over each pane, hke a fairy, crept ; 
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stept, 

By the light of the morn, were seen 
Most beautiful things : there were flowers and trees ; 
There were bevies of buds, and swarjns of bees ; 
There were cities, with temples and towers — and 

All pictured in silver sheen ! [these 



But he did one thing that was hardly fair: 
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there 
That all had forgotten for him to prepare — 

" Now, just to set them a-tliinking, 
I 'U bite this basket of fruit," said he, 
" This costly pitcher I '11 burst in three ; 
And the glass of water they 've left for me 

Shall ' tchick !' to tell them I'm drinking." 



THE WATERFALL. 

Ye mighty waters, that have joined 3-our forces, 

Roaring and dashing with this awful sound. 
Here are ye mingled ; but the distant sources 

Whence ye have issued — where shall they be 
found 1 
Who may reti-ace- the ways that ye have taken. 

Ye streams and drops 1 who separate you all. 
And find the many places ye've forsaken, 

To come and rush together down the fall ^ 

Through thousand, thousand paths have ye been 
roaming, 

In earth and air, who now each other urge 
To the last point ! and then, so madly foaming, 

Leap down at once from this stupendous verge. 

Some in the lowering cloud a while were centred, 
That in the stream beheld its sable face. 

And melted into tears, that, falling, entered 
With sister waters on tliis sudden race. 

Others, to light that beamed upon the fountain. 
Have fi'om the vitals of the rock been fi'eed. 

In silver threads, that, sliining dovrn tile mountain, 
Twined ofl" among the verdure of tlie mead. 

And many a flower that bowed beside the river. 
In opening beauty, ere the dew was dried. 

Stirred by the breeze, has been an early giver 
Of her pui-e offering to the rolling tide. 

Thus, from the veuis, through earth's dark bosom 
pouring. 

Many have flowed in tributaiy streams ; 
Some, in the bow that bent, the sun adoring, 

Have shone m colors borrowed from his beams. 

But He, wlio holds the ocean in the hollow 
Of his strong hand, can separate you all ! 

His searching eye the secret way will follow 
Of every drop that hurries to the fall .' 

We are, like you, ui mighty torrents mingled. 
And speeding downwaid to one common home ; 

Yet there 's an Eye that every drop hath singled. 
And marked the winding ways through which 
we come. 

Those who have here adored the Sun of heaven, 
And shown the world their brightness drawn 
from him. 

Again before him, though their hues be seven, 
Shall blend their beauty, never to grow dim. 

We bless the promise, as we thus are tending 
Down to the tomb, that gives us hope to rise 

Before the Power to whom we now are bending, 
To stand his bow of glory in the skies ! 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 



49 



THE MOON UPON THE SPIRE. 

The full orbed moon has reached no higher 
Than yon old church's mossy spire, 
And seems, as glidijig up the air, 
She saw the fane ; and, pausing there, 
Would worship, in the tranquil night. 
The Prince of Peace — the Source of light. 
Where man for God prcpai'ed the place. 
And God to man unveils his face. 

Her tribute all around is seen ; 
She bends, and worships like a queen ! 
Her robe of light and beaming crown 
In silence she is casting down ; 
And, as a creature of the earth, 
She feels her lowliness of birth — 
Her weakness and inconstancy 
Before unchanging purity ! 

Pale traveller, on thy lonely way, 
'T is well thine homage thus to pay ; 
To reverence that ancient pile. 
And spread thy silver o'er the aisle 
Which many a pious foot has trod, 
That now is dust beneath the sod ; 
Where many a sacred tear was wept 
From eyes that long in death have slept ! 

Tile temple's builders — where are they ? 

The worshippers 1 — all passed away, 

Wlio came the first, to offer there 

The song of praise, the heart of prayer ! 

Man's generation passes soon ; 

It wanes and changes like the moon. 

He raises the perishable wall. 

But, ere it crumbles, he must fall ! 

And does he sink to rise no more 1 
Has he no part to triumph o'er 
The pallid king 1 no spark, to save 
From darkness, ashes, and the grave 1 
Thou holy place, the answer, wrought 
In thy firm sti'ucture, bars the thought ! 
The Spirit that established thee 
Nor death nor darkness e'er shall see ! 



THE ROBE. 

'T WAS not the robe of state 
Which the high and the haughty wear. 
That my busy hand, as the lamp burned late. 
Was hastening to prepare. 

It had no clasp of gold. 
No diamond's dazzUng blaze. 
For the festive board ; nor the graceful fold 
To float in the dance's maze. 

'T was not to wrap the breast 
With gladness light and warm ; 
For the bride's attire — for the joyous guest. 
Nor to clothe the sufferer's form. 

'T was not the garb of wo 
We wear o'er an aching heart. 
When our eyes with bitter tears o'erflow. 
And our dearest ones depart. 
4 



'T was what we all must bear 
To the cold, the lonely bed ! 
'Twas the spotless uniform they wear 
In the chambers of the dead ! 
I saw the fair young maid 
In the snowy vesture drest ; 
So pure, she looked as one an-ayed 
For the mansions of the blest. 

A smile had left its trace 
On her lip at the parting breath. 
And the beauty in that lovely face 
Was fixed with the seal of death ! 



THE CONSIGNMENT. 

FinE, my hand is on the key. 

And the cabinet must ope ! 
I shall now consign to thee 

Things of grief, of joy, of hope. 
Treasured secrets of the heart 

To thy care I hence intrust : 
Not a word must thou impart. 

But reduce them all to dust. 
This — in childhood's rosy mom. 

This was gayly filled and sent. 
Childhood is for ever gone : 

Here, devouring element ! 
TTiis was Friendship's cherished pledge ; 

Friendship took a colder form : 
Creeping on its gilded edge. 

May the blaze be bright and warm ! 

These — the letter aird the token. 

Never more shall meet my view ! 
When the faith has once been broken. 

Let the memory perish too ! 
This — 'twas penned while purest joy 

Warmed the heart, and ht the eye . 
Fate that peace did soon destroy, 

And its transcript now will I ! 

This must go I for, on the seal 

When I broke the solemn yew, 
Keener was the pang than steel ; 

'T was a heart string breaking, too ! 
Here comes up the bloited leaf, 

BHstered o'er by many a tear. 
Hence ! thou waking shade of grief ! 

Go, for ever disappear ! 
This is his, who seemed to be 

High as heaven, and fair as light : 
But the visor rose, and he — 

Spare,' Memory, spare the sight 
Of the face that frowned beneath. 

While I take it, hand and name, 
And entwine it with a wreath 

Of the purifying flame ! 
These — the hand is in the grave. 

And the soul is in the skies, 
Whence they came ! 'T is pain to save 

Cold remains of sundered lies ! 
Go together, all, and burn. 

Once the treasures of my heart! 
Still, my breast shall be an urn 

To preserve your better part ! 



r 



50 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 



THE WINTER BURIAL. 

The deep toned bell peals long and low 

On the keen, midwinter air ; 
A sorrowing train moves sad and slow 

From the solemn place of prayer. 

The earth is in a winding sheet, 

And nature wrapped in gloom ; 
Cold, cold the path which the mourners' feet 

Pursue to the waiting tomb. 

They follow one who calmly goes 
From her own loved mansion door. 

Nor shrinks from the way through gathered snows, 
To return to her home no more. 

A sable line, to the drift crowned hill, 

The narrow pass they wind ; 
And here, where all is drear and chill. 

Their friend they leave behind. 

The silent grave they 're bending o'er, 

A long farewell to take ; 
One last, last look, and then, no more 

Till the dead shall all awake ! 



THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN. 

" I AM a Pebble ! and yield to none !" 
Were the swelling words of a tiny stone — 
" Nor time nor seasons can alter me ; 
I am abiding, while ages flee. 
The pelting hail and the drizzling rain 
Have tried to soften me, long, in vain ; 
And the tender dew has sought to melt 
Or touch my heart ; but it was not felt. 
There 's none that can tell about my birth, 
For I'm as old as the big, round earth. 
The children of men arise, and pass 
Out of the world, hke the blades of grass ; 
And many a foot on me has trod, 
That's gone from sight, and under the sod. 
I am a Pebble ! but who art thou. 
Rattling along from the restless bough V 

The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute. 
And lay for a moment abashed and mute ; 
She never before had been so near 
This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere ; 
And she felt for a time at a loss to know 
How to answer a thing so coarse and low. 
But to give reproof of a nobler sort 
Than the angry look, or the keen retort. 
At length she said, in a gentle tone, 
" Since it is happened that I am thrown 
From the lighter element where I grew, 
Down to another so hard and new, 
And beside a personage so august. 
Abased, I will cover my head with dust. 
And quickly retire from the sight of one 
Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun. 
Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel, 
Has ever subdued, or made to feel !" 
And soon in the earth she sank away 
From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay. 

But it was not long ere the soil was broke 
By the peering head of an infant oak ! 



And, as it arose, and its branches spread. 

The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, said, 

" A modest Acorn — never to tell 

What was enclosed in its simple shell ! 

That the pride of the forest was folded up 

In the narrow space of its Uttle cup ! 

And meekly to sink in the darksome earth. 

Which proves that nothing could hide her worth ! 

And, oh ! how many will tread on me, 

To come and admire the beautiful tree, 

Whose head is towering toward the sky. 

Above such a worthless thing as I ! 

Useless and vain, a cumberer here, 

I have been idling from year to year. 

But never from this, shall a vaunting word 

From the humbled Pebble again be heard, 

Till something without me or within 

Shall show the purpose for which I 've been !" 

The Pebble its vow could not forget, 

And it lies there wrapped in silence yet. 



THE SHIP IS READY. 

Fare thee well ! the ship is ready, 
And the breeze is fresh and steady. 
Hands are fast the anchor weighing ; 
High in air the streamer 's playing. 
Spread the sails — the waves are swelling 
Proudly round thy buoyant dwelling. 
Fare thee well ! and when at sea, 
Think of those who sigh for thee. 

When from land and home receding, 
And from hearts that ache to bleeding. 
Think of those behind, who love thee, 
While the sun is bright above thee ! 
Then, as, down to ocean glancing. 
In the waves his rays are dancing. 
Think how long the night will be 
To the eyes that weep for thee ! 

When the lonely night watch keeping 
All below thee still and sleeping — 
As the needle points the quarter 
O'er the vride and trackless water, 
Let thy vigils ever find thee 
Mindful of the friends behind thee! 
Let thy bosom's magnet be 
Turned to those who wake for thee ! 

When, with slow and gentle motion, 
Heaves the bosom of the ocean — 
While in peace thy bark is riding, 
And the silver moon is gliding 
O'er the sky with tranquil splendor, 
Where the shining hosts attend her: 
Let the brightest visions be 
Country, home, and friends, to thee ! 

When the tempest hovers o'er thee. 
Danger, wreck, and death, before thee. 
While the sword of fire is gleaming, 
Wild the winds, the torrent streaming. 
Then, a pious suppliant bending. 
Let thy thoughts, to Heaven ascending, 
Reach the mercy seat, to be 
Mel by prayers that rise for thee ! 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 



51 



THE CHILD ON THE BEACH. 

Mart, a beautiful, artless child, 

Came down on the beach to me, 
MTicre I sat, and a pensive hour beguiled 

Bj' watching the restless sea. 
I never had seen her face before. 

And mine was to her unknown ; 
But we each rejoiced on that peaceful shore 

The other to meet alone. 
Her cheek was the rose's opening bud. 

Her brow of an ivory white ; 
Her eyes were bright as the stars that stud 

The sky of a cloudless night. 
To reach my side as she gayly sped, 

With the step of a bounding fawn. 
The pebbles scarce moved beneath her tread, 

Ere the little light foot was gone. 
With the love of a holier world than this 

Her innocent heart seemed warm ; 
While the glad young spirit looked out with bliss 

From its shrine in her sylphlike form. 
Her soul seemed spreading the scene to span 

That opened before her view. 
And longing for power to look the plan 

Of the universe fairly through. 
She climbed and stood on the rocky steep, 

Like a bird that would mount and fly 
Far over the waves, where the broad, blue deep 

Rolled up to the bending sky. 
She placed her lips to the spiral shell. 

And breathed through every fold ; 
She looked for the depth of its pearly cell, 

As a miser would look for gold. 
Her small, white fingers were spread to toss 

The foam, as it reached the strand : 
She ran them along in the purple moss. 

And over the sparkling sand. 
The green sea egg, by its tenant left, 

And formed to an ocean cup, 
She held by its sides, of their spears bereft. 

To fin, as the waves rolled up. 
But the hour went round, and she knew the space 

Her mother's soft word assigned ; 
While she seemed to look with a saddening face 

On all she must leave behind. 
She searched mid the pebbles, and, finding one 

Smooth, clear, and of amber dye, 
She held it up to the morning sun. 

And over her own mild eye. 
Then, " Here," said she, " I will give you this. 

That you may remember me !" 
And she sealed her gift with a parting kiss, 

And fled from beside the sea. 
Mary, thy token is by me yet : 

To me 'tis a dearer gem 
Than ever was brought from the mine, or set 

In the loftiest diadem. 
It carries me back to the far off deep, 

And places me on the shore. 
Where the beauteous child, who bade me keep 

Her pebble, I meet once more. 



And all that is lovely, pure, and bright. 

In a soul that is young, and free 
From the stain of guile, and the deadly blight 

Of sorrow, I find in thee. 
I wonder if ever thy tender heart 

In memory meets me there. 
Where thy soft, quick sigh, as we had to part. 

Was caught by the ocean air. 
Blest one ! over Time's rude shore, on thee 

May an angel guard attend. 
And " a white stone bearing a new name," be 

Thy passport when time shall end ! 



THE MIDNIGHT MAIL. 

'Tis midnight — all is peace profound ! 
But, lo ! upon the murmuring ground. 
The lonely, swelling, hurrying sound 

Of distant wheels is heard ! 
They come — they pause a moment — ^when, 
Their charge resigned, they start, and then 
Are gone, and all is hushed again, 

As not a leaf had stirred. 
Hast thou a parent far away, 
A beauteous child, to be thy stay 
In life's decline — or sisters, they 

Who shared thine infant glee ? 
A brother on a foreign shore 7 
Is he whose breast thy token bore. 
Or are thy treasures wandering o'er 

A wide, tumultuous sea 1 
If aught like these, then thou must feel 
The rattling of that reckless wheel. 
That biings the bright or boding seal 

On every trembhng thread 
That strings thy heart, till morn appears. 
To crown thy hopes, or end thy fears, 
To light thy smile, or draw thy tears, 

As line on line is read. 
Perhaps thy treasure's in the deep. 
Thy lover in a dreamless sleep, 
Thy brother where thou canst not weep 

Upon his distant grave ! 
Thy parent's hoary head no more 
May shed a silver lustre o'er 
His children grouped — nor death restore 

Thy son from out the wave ! 
Thy prattler's tongue, perhaps, is stilled. 
Thy sister's lip is pale and chilled. 
Thy blooming bride, perchance, has filled 

Her corner of the tomb. 
May be, the home where all thy sweet 
And tender recollections meet. 
Has shown its flaming winding-sheet 

In midnight's awful gloom ! 
And while, alternate, o'er my soul 
Those cold or burning wheels will roll 
Their chill or heat, beyond control, 

Till morn shall bring relief — 
Father in heaven, whate'er may be 
The cup which thou hast sent for me, 
I know 'tis good, prepared by thee. 

Though filled with joy or grief! 



CAROLINE GILMAN. 



Caroline Howard was born in Boston, in 
1794, and in 1819 was married to the Eev. 
Samuel Oilman, one of the most accom- 
plished scholars of the Unitarian church, 
who is known as an author by his very clever 
work entitled Memoirs of a New England 
Village Choir, and by numerous elegant pa- 
pers in the reviews. Soon after their mar- 
riage they removed to Charleston, South Car- 
olina, where Dr. Oilman has ever since been 
actively engaged in the duties of his pro- 
fession. 

Mrs. Oilman is best known as a writer of 
prose, and her works will long be valued for 
the spirit and fidelity with which she has 
painted rural and domestic life in the north- 
ern and in the southern states. Her Recol- 
lections of a New England Housekeeper, 
and Recollections of a Southern Matron, are 
equally happy, and both show habits of mi- 
nute observation, skill in character-writing. 



and an artist-like power of grouping ; they 
are also pervaded by a genial tone, and a love 
of nature, and good sense. Her other works 
are. Love's Progress, a Tale ; The Poetry of 
Travelling in the United States ; Tales and 
Ballads ; Stories and Poems for Children ; 
and Verses of a Lifetime. She edited for 
several years, in Charleston, a literary ga- 
zette called The Southern Rose ; published a 
collection of the Letters of Eliza Wilkinson, 
a heroine of the Revolution ; and illustrated 
the extent of her reading in poetical liter- 
ature, by two ingenious volumes, entitled 
Oracles from the Poets, and The Sybil. 

The poems of Mrs. Oilman are nearly 
all contained in Verses of a Lifetime, just 
issued (at the close of the year 1848) by 
James Munroe & Company, of Boston. They 
abound in expressions of wise, womanly feel- 
ing, and are frequently marked by a graceful 
elegance of manner. 



ROSALIE. 

'Tis fearful to watch by a dying friend. 

Though luxury glistens nigh ; 
Though the pillow of down be softly spread 

Where the throbbing temples lie — 

Though the loom's pure fabric enfold the form. 
Though the shadowy curtains flow, 

Though the feet on sumptuous carpets tread 
As " lightly as snow on snow" — 

Though the perfumed air as a garden teems 

With flowers of healthy bloom. 
And the feathery fan just stirs the breeze 

In the cool and guarded room — 

Though the costly cup for the fevered lip 

With grateful cordial flows, 
While the watching eye and the warning hand 

Preserve the snatched repose. 

Yes, even with these appliances. 
From wealth's unmeasured store, 

'Tis fearful to watch the spirit's flight 
To its dim and distant shore. 

But oh, when the form that we love is laid 

On Poverty's chilly bed. 
When roughly the blast to the shivering limbs 

Through crevice and pane is sped — 

When the noonday sun comes streaming in 
On the dim or burning eye, 



And the heartless laugh and the worldly tread 
Is heard fi'om the passers by — 

When the sickly lip for a pleasant draught 

To us in vain upturns. 
And the aching head on a pillow hard 

In restless fever burns^ 

When night rolls on, and we gaze ui wo 

On the candle's lessening ray. 
And grope about in the midnight gloom. 

And long for the breaking day — 

Or bless the moon as her silver torch 
Sheds light on our doubtful hand. 

When pouring the drug which a moment wrests 
The soul from the spirit-land — 

When we know that sickness of soul and heart 

Which sensitive bosoms feel. 
When helpless, hopeless, we needs must gaze 

On woes we can not heal : 

This, this is the crown of bitterntss ! 

And we pray, as the loved one dies. 
That our breath may pass with their waning pulse, 

And with theirs close our aching eyes. 

My story tells of sweet Rosalie, 
Once a maiden of joy and delight, 

A ray of love, from her girlish days. 
To her parents' devoted sight. 
53 



CAROLINE GILMAN. 



53 



The girl was free as the river wave 

That dances to ocean's rest, 
And life loolced down like a summer's sun 

On her pure and gentle breast. 

She saw young Arthur — their happy hearts 
Lilce two young streamlets shone, 

That leap along on their mountain path, 
Then mingle their waters as one. 

They parted : he roved to western wilds 

To seek for his bird a nest, 
And Rosalie dwelt in her father's halls. 

And folded her wings to rest. 

But her father died, and a fearful blight 
O'er his child and his widow fell — 

They sunk from that day in the gloomy abyss 
Where sorrow and poverty dwell. 

Consumption came, and he whispered low 

To the widow of early death ; 
He hastened the beat of her constant pulse. 

And baffled the coming breath. 

He preyed on the bloom of her still soft cheek. 
And shrivelled her hand of snow ; 

He checked her step in its easy glide. 
And her eye beamed a restless glow. 

He choked her voice in its morning song. 

And stifled its evening lay. 
And husky and coarse rose her midnight hymn 

As she lay on her pillow to pray. 

Poor Rosalie rose by the dawning light. 

And sat by the midnight oil ; 
But the pittance was fearfully small that came 

By her morning and evening toil. 

'T was then in her lodging the night-wind came 
Through crevice and broken pane ; 

'T was there that the early sunbeam burst 
With its glaring and burning train. 

When Rosalie sat by her mother's side, 
She smothered her heart's affright. 

And essayed to smile, though the monster Want 
Stood haggard and wan in her sight. 

She pressed her feet on the cold damp floor. 
And crushed her hands on her heart. 

Or stood like a statue so still and pale. 
Lest a tear or a cry should start. 

Her household goods went one by one 

To purchase their scanty fare ; 
And even the little mirror was sold 

Where she parted her glossy hair. 

Then hunger glared in her full blue eye. 

And was heard in her tremulous tone ; 
And she longed for the crust that the beggar eats. 

As he sits by the wayside stone. 
The neighbors gave of then: scanty store, 

But their jealous children scowled ; 
And the eager dog, that guarded the street. 

Looked on the morsel and howled. 

Then her mother died — 't was a blessed thing ! 

For the last faint embers had gone 
On the chilly hearth, and the candle was out 

As Rosalie watched for the dawn. 



'Twas a blessed exchange from this dark.co'd earth 
To those bright and blossoming bowers. 

Where the spirit roves in its robes of light. 
And gathers immortal flowers ! 

Poor Rosalie lay on her mother's breast. 
Though its fluttering breath was o'er, 

And eagerly pressed her passive hand. 
Which returned the pressure no more. 

In darkness she closed the fixing eyes. 
And saw not the deathly glare — 

Then straightened the warm and flaccid limbs 
With a wild and fearful care. 

And ere the dawn of the morrow broke 
On the night that her mother died. 

Poor Rosalie sank from her long, long watch. 
In sleep by her mother's side. 

'T was a sorrowful sight for the neighbors to see, 
(When they woke from their kindlier rest,) 

The beautiful girl, with her innocent face. 
Asleep on the corpse's breast. 

Her hair flowed about by her mother's side, 
And her hand on the dead hand fell ; 

Yet her breathing was light as the lily's roll. 
When waved by the ripple's swell. 

There was surely a vision of heaven's delight 

Haunting her exquisite rest. 
For she smiled in her sleep such a heavenly smile 

As could only beam out from the blest. 

'Twas fearful as beautiful : and as they gazed. 
The neighbors stood whispering low, [dead. 

Nor dared they remove her white arm from the 
Where it seemed in its fondness to grow. 

Life is not always a darkling dream : 
God loves our sad waking to bless — 

More brightly, perchance, for the dreary shade 
That heralds out happiness. 

A stranger stands by that humble door, 

A youth in the flush of life. 
And sudden hope in his thoughtful glance 

Seems with sorrow and care at strife. 

Manly beauty and soul-formed grace 
Stand forth in each movement fair. 

And speak in the turn of his well-timed step. 
And shine in his wavy hair. 

With travel and watchfulness worn was he. 
Yet there beamed on his open brow 

Traces of faith and integrity, 

Where conscience had stamped her vow. 

'T was Arthur : he gazed on those two pale forms. 
Soon one was clasped to his heart ; 

In piercing accents he called her name — 
'That voice made the life-blood start ! 

Not on the dead doth she ope her eyes — 
Life, love, spread their living wings ; 

And she rests on her lover's breast as a child 
To its nursing mother clings. 

A pure white tomb in the near graveyard 

Betokens the widow's rest. 
But Arthur has gone to his forest-home, 

And shelters his dove in his nest. 



54 CAROLINE OILMAN. 


THE PLANTATION. 


She smooths her apron as I pass, 




And loves the praise I pay. 


Farewell, awhile, the city's hum, 


Welcome to me her sable hands. 


Where busy footsteps fall, 


When in the noontide heat. 


And welcome to my weary eye 


Within the polished calibash. 


The planter's friendly hall. 


She pours the pearly treat. 


Here let me rise at early dawn, 


The poulterer's feathered, tender charge, 


And list the mockbird's lay. 


Feed on the grassy plain ; 


That, warbling near our lowland home, 


Her Afric brow Ughts up with smiles. 


Sits on the waving spray. 


Proud of her noisy train. 


Then tread the shading avenue 


Nor does the herdman view his flock 


Beneath the cedar's gloom. 


With unadmiring gaze, 


Or gum tree, with its flickered shade, 


Significant are all their names. 


Or chinquapen's perfume. 


Won by their varying ways. 


The myrtle tree, the orange wild, 


Forth from the negi-oes' humble huts 


The cypress' flexile bough. 


The laborers now have gone ; 


The holly with its polished leaves, 


But some remain, diseased and old — 


Are all before me now. 


Do they repine alone 1 


There, towering with imperial pride, 


Ah, no : the nurse, with practised skill, 


The rich magnolia stands, 


That sometimes shames the wise, 


And here, in softer loveliness. 


Prepares the herb of potent power. 


The white-bloomed bay expands. 


And healing aid applies. 


The long gray moss hangs gracefully, 


On sunny banks the children play, 


Idly I twine its wreaths, 


Or wind the fisher's line, 


Or stop to catch the fragrant air 


Or, with the dexterous fancy braid. 


The frequent blossom breathes. 


The willow baskets twine. 


Life wakes around — the red bird darts 


Long ere the sloping sun departs 


Like flame from tree to tree ; 


The laborers quit the field. 


The whip-poor-will complams alone, 


And, housed within their sheltering huts. 


The robin whistles free. 


To careless quiet yield. 


The frightened hare scuds by my path, 


But see yon wild and lurid clouds. 


And seeks the thicket nigh ; 


That rush in contact strong. 


The squirrel climbs the hickory bough, 


And hear the thunder, peal on peal. 


Thence peeps with careful eye. 


Reverberate along. 


The hummingbird, with busy wing, 


The cattle stand and mutely gaze. 


In rainbow beauty moves, 


The birds instinctive fly. 


Above the trumpet-blossom floats, 


While forked flashes rend the air, 


And sips the tube he loves. 


And light the troubled sky. 


Triumphant to yon withered pine 


Behold yon sturdy forest pine. 


The soaring eagle flies. 


Whose green top points to heaven — 


There builds her eyry mid the clouds. 


A flash ! its firm, encasing bark 


And man and heaven defies. 


By that red shock is riven. 


The hunter's bugle echoes near, 


But we, the children of the South, 


And see — his weary train, 


Shrink not with trembling fears ; 


With mingled bowlings, scent the woods 


The storm, familiar to our youth. 


Or scour the open plain. 


Will spare our ripened years. 


Yon skiff is darting from the cove, 


We know its fresh, reviving charm. 


And list the negro's song — 


And, like the flower and bird, 


The theme, his owner and his boat — 


Our looks and voices, in each pause, 


While glide the crew along. 


With grateful joy are stirred. 


And when the leading voice is lost, 


And now the tender rice upshoots. 


Receding from the shore. 


Fresh in its hue of green. 


His brother boatmen swell the strain. 


Spreading its emerald carpet far. 


In chorus with the oar. 


Beneath the sunny sheen ; 


There stands the dairy on the stream, 


Though when the softer, ripened hue 


Within the broad oak's shade ; 


Of autumn's changes rise. 


The white pails glitter in the sun, 


The rustling spires instinctive lift 


In rustic pomp arrayed. 


Their gold seeds to the skies. 


And she stands smiling at the door. 


There the young cotton-plant unfolds 


Who " minds" that milky way — 


Its leaves of sickly hue, 



CAROLINE GILMAN. 



55 



But soon advancing to its growth, 
Looks up witli beauty too. 

And, as midsummer suns prevail, 

Upon its blossoms glow 
Conmiingling hues, like sunset rays — 

Then bursts its sheeted snow. 

How shall we fly this lovely spot, 

Where rural joys prevail — 
The social board, the eager chase, 

Gay dance, and merry tale ? 

Alas ! our youth must leave their sports, 
When spring-time ushers May ; 

Our maidens quit the planted flower. 
Just blushing into day — 

Or, all beneath yon rural mound. 
Where rest th' ancestral dead. 

By mourning friends, with severed hearts, 
Unconscious will be led. 

Oh, southern summer, false and fair ! 

Why, from thy loaded wing. 
Blent with rich flowers and fruitage rare, 

The seeds of sorrow fling 1 



MUSIC ON THE CANAL. 

I WAS weary with the daylight, 

I was weary with the shade. 
And my heart became still sadder 

As the stars their light betrayed ; 
I sickened at the ripple. 

As the lazy boat went on. 
And felt as though a friend was lost. 

When the twilight ray was gone. 

The meadows, in a firefly glow, 
Looked gay to happy eyes : 

To me they beamed but mournfully, 
My heart was cold with sighs. 

They seemed, indeed, like summer friends- 
Alas ! no warmth had they ; 

I turned in sorrow from their glare. 
Impatient turned away. 

And tear-drops gathered in my eyes. 

And rolled upon my cheek. 
And when the voice of mirth was heard, 

I had no heart to speak : 
I longed to press my children 

To my sad and homesick breast, 
And feel the constant hand of love 

Caressing and caressed. 

And slowly went my languid pulse, 

As the slow canal-boat goes. 
And I felt the pain of weariness, 

And sighed for home's repose ; 
And laughter seemed a mockery, 

And joy a fleeting breath, 
And life a dark, volcanic crust, 

That crumbles over death. 

But a strain of sweetest melody 

Arose upon my ear. 
The blessed sound of woman's voice, 

That angels love to hear ! 



And manly strains of tenderness 
Were mingled with the song — 

A father's with his daughter's notes. 
The gentle with the strong. 

And my thoughts began to soften. 

Like snows when waters fall. 
And open as the frost-closed buds, 

When spring's young breezes call ; 
While to my faint and weary soul 

A better hope was given. 
And all once more was bright with faith, 

'Twixt heart, and earth, and Heaven. 



THE CONGRESSIONAL BURYING-GROUND. 

The pomp of death was there — • 
The lettered urn, the classic marble rose. 
And coldly, in magnificent repose. 

Stood out the column fair. 

The hand of art was seen 
Throwing the wild flowers fi-om the gravelled walk, 
The sweet wild flowers, that hold their quiet talk 

Upon the uncultured green. 

And now perchance, a bird. 
Hiding amid the trained and scattered trees. 
Sent forth his carol on the scentless breeze — 

But they were few I heard. 

Did my heart's pulses beat 1 
And did mine eye o'erflow with sudden tears. 
Such as gush up mid memories of years, 

When humbler graves we meet ? 

An humbler grave I met. 
On the Potomac's leafy banks, when May, 
Weaving spring flowers, stood out in colors gay, 

With her young coronet : 

A lonely, nameless grave, 
Stretching its length beneath th' o'erarching trees, 
Which told a plaintive story, as the breeze 

Came their new buds to wave. 

But the lone turf was green 
As that which gathers o'er more honored forms ; 
Nor with more harshness had the wintry storms 

Swept o'er that woodland scene. 

The flower and springing blade 
Looked upward with their young and shining eyes, 
And met the sunlight of the happy skies. 

And that low turf arrayed. 

And unchecked birds sang out 
The chorus of their spring-time jubilee — 
And gentle happiness it was to me, 

To list their music-shout. 

And to that stranger-grave 
The tribute of enkindling thoughts — the free 
And unbought power of natural sympathy — 

Passing, I sadly gave. 

And a religious spell 
On that lone mound, by man deserted, rose — 
A conscious presence from on high, which glows 

Not where the worldly dwell. 



56 



CAROLINE GILMAN. 



TO THE URSULINES. 

Oh, pure and gentle ones, within your ark 

Securely rest ! 
Blue be the sky above — your quiet bark 

By soft winds blest ! 

Still toil in duty, and commune with Heaven, 

World-weaned and free ; 
God to his humblest creatures room has given 

And space to be. 

Space for the eagle in the vaulted sky 

To plume his wing — 
Space for the ringdove by her young to lie, 

And softly sing. 

Space for the sunflower, bright with yellow glow, 

To court the sky — 
Space for the violet, where the wild woods grow, 

To live and die. 

Space for the ocean, in its giant might. 

To swell and rave — 
Space for the river, tinged with rosy light. 

Where green banks wave. 

Space for the sun to tread his path in might 

And golden pride — 
Space for the glow-worm, calling, by her light. 

Love to her side. 

Then, pure and gentle ones, within your ark 

Securely rest ! 
Blue be the skies above, and your still bark 

By kind winds blest. 



RETURN TO MASSACHUSETTS. 

The martin's nest — the simple nest ! 

I see it swinging high. 
Just as it stood in distant years. 

Above my gazing eye ; 
But many a bird has plumed its wing. 

And lightly flown away, 
Or drooped his little head in death, 

Since that — my youthful day ! 

The woodlancl stream — the pebbly stream ! 

It gayly flows along. 
As once it did when by its side 

I sang my merry song : 
But many a wave has rolled afar. 

Beneath the summer cloud. 
Since by its bank I idly poured 

My childish song aloud. 



The sweet-brier rose— -the wayside rose. 

Still spreads its fragrant arms. 
Where gi'aciously to passing eyes 

It gave its simple charms ; 
But many a perfumed breeze has passed. 

And many a blossom fair, 
Since with a careless heart I twined 

Its green wreaths in my hair. 

The barberry bush — the poor man's bush ! 

Its yellow blossoms hang. 
As erst, where by the grassy lane 

Along I lightly sprang ; 
But many a flower has come and gone. 

And scarlet berry shone. 
Since I, a school-girl in its path. 

In rustic dance have flown. 



ANNIE IN THE GRAVEYARD. 

She bounded o'er the graves. 
With a buoyant step of mirth ; 
She bounded o'er the graves. 
Where the weeping willow waves. 
Like a creature not of earth. 

Her hair was blown aside, 

And her eyes were glittering bright; 

Her hair was blown aside, 

And her little hands spread wide. 

With an innocent delight. 

She spelt the lettered word 
That registers the dead ; 
She spelt the lettered word. 
And her busy thoughts were stirred 
With pleasure as she read. 

She stopped and culled a leaf 
Left fluttering on a rose ; 
She stopped and culled a leaf. 
Sweet monument of grief. 
That in our churchyard grows. 

She culled it with a smile — 
'T was near her sister's mound : 
She culled it with a smile. 
And played with it awhile. 
Then scattered it around, 

I did not chill her heart. 
Nor turn its gush to tears ; 
I did not chill her heart — • 
Oh, bitter drops will start 
Full soon in coming years. 



SARAH J. HALE. 



Sarah Josepha Buell, now Mrs. Hale, 
was born in 1790 at Newport in New Hamp- 
sliire, wiiither her parents had removed soon 
after the close of the Revolution, from Say- 
brook in Connecticut. There were then few 
schools in that part of the country, and per- 
haps none from which the parents of Miss Bu- 
ell would have sought for her more than the 
most elementary instruction. Her mother, 
however, was a woman of considerable cul- 
tivation, and of a fine understanding ; she at- 
tended carefully to the educationof her chil- 
dren, and the studies of our author which she 
could not direct were afterward guided by a 
brother, who graduated at Dartmouth college 
in 1S09, and was a good classical and gen- 
eral scholar. But the completion of her ed- 
uration was deferred until afier her marriage, 
which took place about the year 1814. Her 
husband, Mr. David Hale, was an accom- 
plished lawyer, well read in the best litera- 
ture, and anxious for the thorough develop- 
ment of her abilities, of which he had formed 
a high estimate. "We commenced, "writes 
Mrs. Hale, " immediately after our marriage, 
a system of study, which we pursued togeth- 
er, with few interruptions, and these una- 
voidable, during his life. The hours we 
allotted for this purpose were from eight 
o'clock in the evening till ten. In this man- 
ner we studied French, botany — then almost 
a new science in this country, but for which 
my husband had an uncommon taste — and 
obtained some knowledge of mineralogy, ge- 
ology, &c., besides pursuing a long and in- 
structive course of miscellaneous reading." 

Mr. Hale died suddenly in September, 1822, 
having been married about eight years, du- 
ring which he had been eminently successful 
in attaining to professional eminence, but 
without having yet secured even the basis 
of a fortune. Mrs. Hale was a widow and 
was poor, and after the strongest feelings of 
sorrow had subsided, and the affairs of her de- 
ceased husband had been settled, she formed 
plans for the support and education of her 
family, which she subsequently executed 
with an energy and perseverance which 



command admiration, and which with her 
powers could not fail of success. Literature, 
which had hitherto been cultivated for its 
own reward, became now her profession and 
only means of support. 

The first publication of Mrs. Hale was 
The Genius of Oblivion, and other Original 
Poems, printed at Concord in 1823. The 
Genius of Oblivion is a descriptive story in 
about fifteen hundred octo-syllabic lines — 
founded upon a tradition of the aboriginal 
settlement of this country. At the close of 
the poem is an intimation of a half-formed 
design to write a sequel to it. She says : 

And hence Columbia's first inhabitants — 

The authors of these Monuments of Old : 
And their destruction^ I may sing, perchance, 

If haply this, my tale, so featly told, 
Escape Medusan critics' withering glance, 

And in my country's favor live enrolled, 
As not rmworthy of her smile : hut this, 

A hope I may but cherish, or — dismiss 

Her next work, however, was Northwood, 
a Tale of New England, in two volumes, 
published in Boston in 1827. Her object in 
this novel is to illustrate common life among 
the descendants of the Puritans, and she un- 
doubtedly succeeded in sketching with spirit 
and singular fidelity the formsof society with 
which she was acquainted by observation. 
The doctor, the deacon, the family of the 
squire, and other village characters, are most 
natural and truthful delineations. But North- 
wood evinces little of the constructive fac- 
ulty, and only its portraitures that have been 
referred to can be much commended. 

In 1828 Mrs. Hale removed to Boston to 
conduct the American Ladies' Magazine, a 
monthly miscellany established at that time, 
and edited by her for about nine years. In 
this work were originally published many 
of the prose compositions which were sub- 
sequently issued in two separate volumes 
under the titles of Sketches of American 
Character, and Traits of American Life. In 
the same period she published Flora's Inter- 
preter, The Lady's Wreath, and several small 
books for children. She remained in Boston 
until 1838, when she removed to Philadel- 



58 



SARAH J. HALE. 



phia, where she has since resided, as editor 
of the Lady's Book, one of the most popular 
and widely-circulated literary periodicals in 
the English language. 

In 1846 Mrs. Hale published a poem more 
remarkable than any other she has written, 
for a certain delicacy of fancy and expres- 
sion, under the name of Alice Ray ; and in 
184S appeared her Three Hours, or the Vigil 
of Love, and other Poems, a collection in 
which Alice Ray is included, and upon which 
altogether must rest her best literary repu- 
tation. Three Hours, or the Vigil of Love, 
is very much in the style of some of the more 
fantastic stories of Winthrop Mackworth 
Praed. The heroine has fled with her lover, 
an escaped state prisoner, from England to 
Boston, and the interest of the poem arises 
from the effective manner in which, while 
she is waiting his return, in a stormy night, 
her fears are awakened, and by a vivid rec- 
ollection of tales of horror heightened to an 
indescribable dread. 

It was two hundred years ago. 
When moved the world so veiy slow, 
' And when the wide Atlantic sea 
Appeared like an eternity. 

The following scene, from ghostly stories 
she heard in childhood, is among the phan- 
tasms by which she is haunted, and it ex- 
hibits in a favorable light Mrs. Hale's ca- 
pabilities in this line of art: 

Once a holy man was set 
Watching where the witches met. 
Open Bible, naked sword — 
And three candles on the board — 
There the godly man was set 
Watching where the witches met; 
Knovring well his dreadful doom, 
Should they drive him from the room. 

The candles three were burning bright, 
The sword was flashing back the light, 
As it struck the deep midnight; 
While the holy book he read. 
And all was still as are the dead. 

Suddenly there came a roar 
Like breakers on a rocky shore. 
When the ocean's thundering boom 
Knells the mariner to his tomb. 
The good man felt the struggling strife. 
As the ship went down with its load of life ! 
His seat was shaken by the roar. 
And upward seemed to rise the floor ! 
While round and round, as eddies hurl, 
The room and table seemed to whirl ! 
Yet stUl the holy book read he. 
And prayed for those who sail the sea. 



Then came a shrieking, wild and high, 
As when flames are bursting nigh. 
And their blood has stained the sky ! 
" Fly ! fly ! fly !" in a strangling cry, 
Was hoarsely rattled on ids ear — 
While the crackling flames came near ! 
And still the holy book read he. 
And prayed for those where fires might be. 

And then appeared a sight of dread ; 
The roof was opened above his head ; 
He saw, in the far-off, dusky view, 
A bloody hand and an arm come through ! — 
The lady seemed to see them too. 

At the close of the third hour the husband 
is restored, and all these fearful shadows are 
dispelled. The plot is simple and the exe- 
cution of the poem generally finished ; but 
its effect is marred by the introduction of 
some needless reflections and by occasional 
changes of the rhythm. 

Among the published works of Mrs. Hale 
is Ormond Grosvenor, a Tragedy, in Five 
Acts, founded upon the celebrated case of 
Colonel Isaac Hayne, the revolutionary mar- 
tyr of South Carolina. This was printed in 
1838, but it has since been partly re-written 
and very much improved. In 1848 she gave 
to the public Harry Guy, a Story of the Sea, 
in nearly three thousand lines of most com- 
pact versification. Her long and elaborate po- 
ems entitled Felicia, and The Rhime of Life, 
appear from some extracts that have been 
printed, to possess more impassioned earnest- 
ness than her other compositions, and they 
contain perhaps the clearest expressions of 
her intellectual and social character. 

Mrs. Hale has a ready command of pure 
and idiomatic English, and her style has fre- 
quently a masculine strength and energy. 
She has not much creative power, but she 
excels in the aggregation and artistical dis- 
position of common and appropriate image- 
ry. She has evidently been all her life a 
student, and there has been a perceptible 
and constant improvement in her writings 
ever since her first appearance as an author. 

Besides her works that have been pub- 
lished in separate volumes, she has written 
a very large number of tales, sketches, es- 
says, criticisms, poems, and other composi- 
tions, which are scattered through the vari- 
ous periodicals with which she has been con- 
nected. They are all indicative of sound 
principles, and of kindness, knowledge, and 
judgment. 



SAEAH J. HALE. 



59 



THE MISSISSIPPI. 

MoTTARCH of rivers in the wide domain 
Where Freedom writes her signature in stars, 
And bids her eagle bear the blazing scroll 
To usher in the reign of peace and love, 
Thou mighty Mississippi ! — may my song 
Swell with thy power, and though an humble rill, 
Roll, Uke thy current, through the sea of time, 
Bearing thy name, as tribute from my soul 
Of fervent gratitude and holy praise. 
To Him who poured thy multitude of waves. 

Shadowed beneath those artful piles of stone. 
Where liberty has found a Pisgah height, 
O'erlooking all the land she loves to bless. 
The jagged rocks and icy towers her guard. 
Whose splintered summits seize the warring clouds, 
And roll them, broken, like a host o'erthrown, 
Adown the mountain's side, scattering their wealth 
Of powdered pearl and liquid diamond drops — 
There is thy source, great river of the west ! 

Slowly, like youthful Titan gathering strength 
To war with Heaven and win himself a name, 
The stream moves onward through the dark ravines, 
Rending the roots of over-arching trees, 
To form its narrow channel, where the star. 
That fain would bathe its beauty in the wave, 
Like lover's glance steals trembling through the 
That veil the waters with a vestal's care : [leaves 
And few of human form have ventured there, 
Save the swart savage in his bark canoe. 

But now it deepens, struggles, rushes on; 
Like goaded war-horse, bounding o'er the foe. 
It clears the rocks it may not spurn aside, 
Leaping, as Curtius leaped adown the gulf. 
And rising, Uke Antfeus from the fall. 
Its course majestic through the land pursues. 
And the broad river o'er the valley reigns ! 

It reigns alone : the tributary streams 
Are humble vassals, yielding to its sway ; 
And when the wild Missouri fain would join 
A rival in the race — as Jacob seized 
On his red brother's birthright — even so 
The swelling Mississippi grasps that wave. 
And, rebaptizing, makes the waters one. 

It reigns alone — and earth the sceptre feels : 
Her ancient trees are bowed beneath the wave, 
Or, rent like reeds before the whirlwind's swoop. 
Toss on the bosom of the maddened flood, 
A tioating forest, till the waters, calmed. 
Like slumbering anaconda gorged with prey. 
Open a haven to the moving mass. 
Or form an island in the dark abyss. 

It reigns alone : old Nile would ne'er bedew 
The lands it blesses with its fertile tide. 
Even sacred Ganges, joined with Egypt's flood. 
Would shrink beside this wonder of the west ! 
Ay, gather Europe's royal rivers all — 
The snow-swelled Neva, with an empire's weight 
On her broad breast, she yet may overwhelm ; 
Dark Danube, hurrying, as by foe pursued, 
Through shaggy forests and from palace walls, 
To hide its terrors in a sea of gloom ; 
The castled Rhine,whose vine-crowned waters flow, 
The fount of fable and the source of song ; 



The rushing Rhone, in whose cerulean depths 
The loving sky seems wedded with the wave ; 
The yellow Tiber, choked with Roman spoils, 
A dying miser shrinking 'neath his gold ; 
And Seine, where Fashion glasses fairest forms ; 
And Thames, that bears the riches of the world : 
Gather their waters in one ocean mass — 
Our Mississippi, rolling proudly on, 
Would sweep them from its path, or swallow up. 
Like Aaron's rod, these streams of fame and song ! 

And thus the peoples, from the many lands. 
Where these old streams are household memories. 
Mingle beside our river, and are one — 
And join to swell the strength of Freedom's tide, 
That irom the fount of Truth is flowing on. 
To sweep earth's thousand tyrannies away. 

How wise, how wonderful the works of God ! 
And, hallowed by his goodness, all are good. 
The creeping glow-worm, the careering sun. 
Are kindled from the efHuence of his light ; 
The ocean and the acorn-cup are filled 
By gushings from the fountain of his love. 
He poured the Mississippi's lorrent forth. 
And heaved its tide above the trembling land — 
Grand type how Freedom lifts the citizen 
Above the subject masses of the world — 
And marked the limits it may never pass. 
Trust in his promises, and bless his power, 
Ye dwellers on its banks, and be at peace. 

And ye, whose way is on this warrior wave. 
When the swoln waters heave with ocean's might. 
And storms and darkness close the gate of heaven, 
And the fi'ail bark, fire-driven, bounds quivering on, 
As though it rent the iron shroud of night, 
And struggled with the demons of the flood — 
Fear nothing ! He who shields the folded flower. 
When tempests rage, is ever present here. 
Lean on " our Father's" breast in faith and prayer 
And sleep — his arm of love is strong to save. 

Great Source of being, beauty, light, and love . 
Creator — Lord — the waters worship thee ! 
Ere thy creative smile had sown the flowers — 
Ere the glad hills leaped upward, or the earth. 
With swelling bosom, waited for her child — 
Before eternal Love had ht the sun. 
Or Time had traced his dial-plate in stars. 
The joyful anthem of the waters flowed : 
And Chaos like a frightened felon fled. 
While on the deep the Holy Spirit moved. 

And evermore the deep has worshipped God ; 
And bards and prophets tune their mystic lyres, 
While listening to the music of the floods. 
Oh, could I catch this harmony of sounds. 
As borne on dewy wings they float to heaven. 
And blend their meaning with my closing strain ! 

Hark ! asareed-harp thrilled by whispering winds. 
Or naiad murmurs from a pearl-lipped shell. 
It comes — the melody of many waves ! 
And loud, with Freedom's world-awaking note, 
The deep-toned Mississippi leads the choir. 
The pure, sweet fountains chant of heavenly hope •. 
The chorus of the rills is household love ; 
The rivers roll their song of social joy ; 
And ocean's organ voice is sounding forth 
The hymn of Universal Brotherhood ! 



60 



SARAH J. HALE. 



THE FOUa-EEAVED CLOVER. 

" There '3 wisdom in tlie grass — its teacliings would we lieed." 

Theue knelt beneath the tulip tree 

A maiden fair and young ; 
The flowers o'erhead bloomed gorgeously, 

As though by rainbows flung, 
And all around were daisies bright, 
And pansies with their eyes of liglit; 
Like gold the sun-kissed crocus shone, 
With Beauty's smiles the earth seemed strown, 
And Love's warm incense filled the air, 
While the fair girl was kneeling there. 

In vain the flowers may woo around — 

Their charms she does not see, 
For she a dearer prize has found 

Beneath the tulip tree : 
A little four-leaved clover, green 
As robes that grace the fairy queen. 
And fresh as hopes of early youth, 
Wheii life is love, and love is truth — 
A talisman of constant love 
This humble clover sure will prove ! 

And on her heart that gentle maid 

The severed leaves has pressed, 
Which through the coming night's dark shade 

Beneath her cheek will rest : 
Then precious dreams of one will rise, 
Like Love's own star in morning skies. 
So sweetly bright, we would the day 
His glowing chariot might delay. 
What tones of pure and tender thought 
Those simple leaves to her have taught ! 

Of old the sacred misletoe 

The Druid's altar bound ; 
The Roman hero's haughty brow 

The fadeless laurel crowned. 
Dark superstition's sway is past. 
And war's red star is waning fast, 
Nor misletoe nor laurel hold 
The mystic language breathed of old ; 
For nature's life no power can give. 
To bid the false and selfish live. 

But still the olive-leaf imparts. 

As when,«dove-borne, at first. 
It taught heaven's lore to human hearts — 

Its hope, and joy, and trust ; 
Nor deem the faith from folly springs, 
Which innocent enjoyment brings; 
Better from earth root every flower. 
Than crush imagination's power. 
In true and loving minds, to raise 
An Eden for their coming days. 

As on each rock, where plants can cling. 

The sunshine will be shed — 
As from the tiniest star-lit spring 

The ocean's depth's are fed — 
Thus hopes will rise, if love's clear ray 
Keep warm and bright life's rock-strewn way ; 
And from small, daily joys, distilled. 
The heart's deep fount of peace is filled : 
Oh, blest when Fancy's ray is given. 
Like the ethereal spark, from Heaven ! 



DESCRIPTION OF ALICE RAY. 

The birds their love-notes warble 

Among the blossomed trees ; 
The flowers are sighing forth their sweets 

To wooing honeybees ; 
The glad brook o'er a pebbly floor 

Goes dancing on its way — 
But not a thing is so hke spring 

As happy Alice Ray. 

An only child was Alice, 

And, like the blest above, 
The gentle maid had ever breathed 

An atmosphere of love ; 
Her father's smile like sunshine came, 

Like dew her mother's kiss ; 
Their love and goodness made her home. 

Like heaven, the place of bliss. 

Beneath such tender ti-aining 

The joyous child had sprung. 
Like one bright flower, in wild-wood bower, 

And gladness round her flung ; 
And all who met her blessed her, 

And turned again to pray. 
That grief and care might ever spare 

The happy Alice Rray. 

The gift that made her charming 

Was not from Venus caught ; 
Nor was it, Pallas-like, derived 

From majesty of thought : 
Her healthful cheek was tinged with brown. 

Her hair without a curl — 
But then her eyes were love-Ut stars, 

Her teeth as pure as pearl. 

And when in merry laughter 

Her sweet, clear voice was heard. 
It welled from out her happy heart 

Like carol of a bird ; 
And all who heard were moved to smiles, 

As at some mirthful lay. 
And, to the stranger's look, replied, 

" 'T is that dear Alice Ray." 

And so she came, like sunbeams 

That bring the April green — 
As type of nature's royalty. 

They called her " Woodburn's queen !" 
A sweet, heart-lifting cheerfulness. 

Like springtime of the year. 
Seemed ever on her steps to wait — 

No wonder she was dear. 

Her world was ever joyous — 

She thought of grief and pain 
As giants of the olden time. 

That ne'er would come again ; 
The seasons all had charms for her, 

She welcomed each with joy — 
The charm that in her spirit lived 

No changes could destroy. 
Her love made all things lovely, 

For in the heart must live 
The feeling that imparts the charm — 

We gain by what we give. 



SARAH J. HALE. 



61 



IRON. 

" Truth shall spring out of the earth." — Psalm Ixxsr, 11. 

As, in lonely thought, I pondered 

On the man^'lous things of earth, 
And, in fancy's dreaming, wondered 

At their heauty, power, and worth, 
Came, like words of prayer, the feeling — 

Oh ! that God would make me know, 
Through the spirit's clear revealing. 

What, of all his works helow, 
Is to man a hoon the greatest, 

Brightening on from age to age, 
Sening truest, earhest, latest, 

Through the world's long pilgrimage. 

Soon vast mountains rose before me, 

Shagg}', desolate, and lone, 
Their scarred heads were threat'ning o'er me. 

Their dark shadows round me thrown ; 
Then a voice, fi-om out the mountains, 

As an earthqualie shook the ground, 
And like frightened fawns the fountains, 

Leaping, fled before the sound ; 
And the Anak oaks bowed lowly, 

Quivering, aspen-like, with fear — • 
While the deep response came slowly. 

Or it must have crushed mine ear ! 

" Iron ! iron ! U'on !" — crashing, 

Like the battle-axe and shield ! 
Or the sword on helmet clashing, 

Tlu-ough a bloody battle-field : 
" Iron ! iron ! iron !" — roUing, 

Like the far-off cannon's boom ; 
Or the death-knell, slowly tolling. 

Through a dungeon's chamel gloom ! 
" Iron ! iron ! iron !" — swinging. 

Like the summer winds at play; 
Or as bells of Time were ringing 

In the blest millennial day ! 

Then the clouds of ancient fable 

Cleared away before mine eyes ; 
Truth could tread a footing stable 

O'er the gulf of mysteries ! 
Words, the prophet-bards had uttered. 

Signs, the oracle foretold, 
Spells, the weird-hke sybil muttered. 

Through the twihght days of old. 
Rightly read, beneath the splendor, 

Shining now on history's page. 
All their faithful witness render — 

All portend a better age. 

Sisyphus, for ever toiling, 

Was the type of toiling men, 
While the stone of power, recoiUng, 

Crushed them back to earth again ! 
Stem Prometheus, bound and bleeding. 

Imaged man in mental chain, 
While the vultures, on him feeding. 

Were the passions' vengeful reign ; 
Still a ray of mercy tarried 

On the cloud, a white-winged dove, 
For this mystic faith had married 

Vulcan to the queen of love ! 



Rugged strength and radiant beauty — 

These were one in nature's plan ; 
Humble toil and heavenward duty — 

These will fomi the perfect man ! 
Darkly was this doctrine taught us 

By the gods of heathendom ; 
But the living light was brought us, 

Wlien the gospel mom had come ! 
How the glorious change, expected. 

Could be wrought, was then made free ; 
Of the earthly, when perfected. 

Rugged iron forms the key ! 

" Tmth from out the earth shall flourish," 

This the Word of God makes known — 
Thence are harvests men to nourish — 

There let iron's power be shown. 
Of the swords, from slaughter gory, 

Ploughshares forge to brealc the soil ; 
Then will Mind attain its glory. 

Then will Labor reap the spoil — • 
EiTor cease the soul to 'wilder. 

Crime be checked by simple good, 
As the little coral-builder 

Forces back the furious flood. 

While our faith in good grows stronger, 

Means of greater good increase ; 
Iron, slave of war no longer, 

Leads the onward march of peace ; 
Still new modes of service finding. 

Ocean, earth, and air, it moves. 
And the distant nations binding, 

Like the kindred tie it proves ; 
With its Atlas-shoulder sharing 

Loads of human toil and care ; 
On its wing of lightning bearing 

Thought's swift mission through the air ! 

As the rivers, farthest flowing. 

In the highest hills have birth ; 
As the banyan, broadest growing, 

Oflenest bows its head to earth — 
So the noblest minds press onward, 

Channels far of good to trace ; 
So the largest heai'ts bend downward. 

Circling all the human race ; 
Thus, by iron's aid, pursuing 

Through the eai'th their plans of love. 
Men our Father's will are doing, 

Here, as angels do above ! 



THE WATCHER. 

The night was dark and fearful, 

The blast swept wailing by ; — 
A watcher, pale and tearfiil. 

Looked forth with anxious eye : 
How wistfully she gazes — 

No gleam of mom is there ! 
And then her heart upraises 

Its agony of prayer ! 

Within that dwelUng lonely, 

Where want and darkness reign, 

Her precious child, her only. 
Lay moaning in his paui ; 



62 



SARAH J. HALE. 



And death alone can free him — 
She feels that this must be : 

" But oh ! for morn to see him 
Smile once again on me !" 

A hundred lights are glancing 

In yonder mansion fair, 
And merry feet are dancing — 

They heed not morning there : 
Oh ! young and lovely creatures, 

One lamp, from out your store, 
Would give that poor boy's features 

To her fond gaze once more ! 

The morning sun is shining — 

She heedeth not its ray ; 
Beside her dead, reclining. 

That pale, dead mother lay ! 
A smile her lip was wreathing, 

A smile of hope and love, 
As though she still were breathing — 

" There 's light for us above !" 



I SING TO HIM. 

I siFG to him ,' I dream he hears 

The song he used to love. 
And oft that blessed fancy cheers 

And bears my thoughts above. 
Ye say 'tis idle thus to dream — 

But why believe it so 1 
It is the spirit's meteor gleam 

To soothe the pang of wo. 

Love gives to nature's voice a tone 

That true hearts understand — 
The sky, the earth, the forest lone, 

Are peopled by his wand ; 
Sweet fancies all our pulses thrill 

While gazing on a flower, 
And from the gently whisp'ring rill 

Is heard the words of power. 

I breathe the dear and cherished name, 

And long'lost scenes arise ; 
Life's glowing landscape spreads the same ; 

The same hope's kindUng skies ; 
The violet-bank, the moss-fringed seat 

Beneath the droopmg tree. 
The clock that chimed the hour to meet, 

My buried love, with thee — 

0, these are all before me, when 

In fancy's realms I rove ; 
Why urge me to the world again ? 

Why say the ties of love, 
That death's cold, cruel grasp has riven, 

Unite no more below 1 
I'll sing to him — for though in heaven, 

He surely heeds my wo ! 



THE LIGHT OF HOME. 

Mr son, thou wilt dream the world is fair, 

And thy spirit will sigh to roam. 
And thou must go ; — but never, when there, 

Forget the Ught of home ! 

Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright, 

It dazzles to lead astray ; 
Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night 

When treading thy lonely way : 

But the hearth of home has a constant flame, 

And pure as vestal fire ; 
'Twill bum, 'twill burn for ever the same, 

For nature feeds the pyre. 

The sea of ambition is tempest-tossed. 
And thy hopes may vanish like foam : 

When sails are shivered and compass lost, 
Then look to the light of home ! 

And there, like a star through the midnight cloud. 

Thou shalt see the beacon bright, 
For never, till shining on thy shroud, 

Can be quenched its holy light 

The sun of fame may gild the name, 

But the heart ne'er felt its ray ; 
And fashion's smiles that rich ones claim. 

Are beams of a wintry day : 

How cold and dim those beams would be, 
Should hfe's poor wanderer come ! — 

My son, when the world is dark to thee, 
Then turn to the light of home. 



THE TWO MAIDENS. 

One came with light and laughing air, 
And cheek like opening blossom — 

Bright gems were twined amid her hair, 
And ghttered on her bosom. 

And pearls and costly diamonds deck 

Her round, white arms and lovely neck. 

Like summer's sky, with stars bedight. 
The jewelled robe around her. 

And dazzling as the noontide light 
The radiant zone that bound her — 

And pride and joy were in her eye. 

And mortals bowed as she passed by. 

Another came : o'er her sweet face 
A pensive shade was stealing ; 

Yet there no grief of earth we trace — 
But the heaven-hallowed feeling 

Which mourns the heart should ever stray 

From the pure fount of truth away. 

Around her brow, as snowdrop fair, 

The glossy tresses cluster. 
Nor pearl nor ornament was there, 

Save the meek spirit's lustre ; 
And faith and hope beamed in her eye, 
And angels bowed as she passed by. 



ANNA MARIA WELLS. 



Mrs. Wells, formerly Miss Fostek, was 
born ill Gloucester, Massachusetts. Her fa- 
ther died while she was an infant, and her 
mother, in a few years, married Mr. Locke, 
of Boston, the father of Mrs. Osgood. She 
began to write yerses when very young, but 
published little until her marriage, in 1829, 
with Mr. Thomas Wells, of the United States 
revenue service, who was also an author of 
considerable merit, as is evident from some 
pieces fay him quoted in Mr. Kettell's Speci- 
mens of American Poetry. 

In 1830 Mrs. Wells published a small vol- 



ume entitled Poems and Juvenile Sketches, 
and she has since been an occasional contri- 
butor to several periodicals that have been 
edited by her personal friends. The poems 
of Mrs. Wells are characterized by womanly 
feeling and a tasteful simplicity of diction. 
Her range is limited, and she has the good 
sense to enter only the fields to which she is 
invited by her affections and the natural fan- 
cies which are their children. While there- 
fore her successes have not been brilliant they 
have been honorable, and she-has to regret 
no failures. 



ASCUTNEY. 

Xs a low, white-washed cottage, overrun 
With mantling vines, and sheltered from the sun 
By rows of maple trees, that gently moved 
Their graceful hmbs to the mild breeze they loved. 
Oft have I lingered — idle it might seem, 
But that the heart was busy ; and I deem 
Those minutes not misspent, when silently 
The soul communes with nature, and is free. 

O'erlooking this low cottage, stately stood 
The huge Ascutney : there, in thoughtful mood, 
I loved to hold with her gigantic form 
Deep converse — not articulate, but warm 
With feeling's noiseless eloquence, and fit 
The soul of nature with man's soul to knit. 

In various aspect, frowning on the day, 
Or touched with morning twilight's silvery gray, 
Or darkly mantled in the dusky night. 
Or by the moonbeams bathed in showers of light — 
In each, in all, a glory still was there, 
A spirit of sublimity ; but ne'er 
Had such a might of loveliness and power 
The mountain wrapt, as when, at midnight hour, 
I saw the tempest gather round her head : 
It was an hour of joy, yet tinged with dread. 
As the deep thunder rolled from cloud to cloud. 
From all her hidden caves she cried aloud : 
Wood, cliff, and valley, with the echo rung; 
From rock and crag darting, with forked tongue 
The Ughtning glanced, a moment laying bare 
Her naked brow, then silence — darkness there ! 
And straight again the tumult, as if rocks 
Had split, and headlong rolled. But nature mocks 
All language : these are scenes I ne'er again 
May look upon — but precious thoughts remain 
On memory's page ; and ever in my heart. 
Amid all other claims, that mountain hath a part 



THE TAMED EAGLE. 

He sat upon his humble perch, nor flew 

At my approach ; 

But as I nearer drew, 
Looked on me, as I fancied, with reproach, 

And sadness too : 
And something still his native pride proclaimed, 

Despite his wo ; 

Which, when I marked — ashamed 
To see a noble creature brought so low — 

My heart exclaimed : 
" Where is the fire that lit thy fearless eye, 

Child of the storm. 

When from thy home on high. 
Yon craggy-breasted rock, I saw thy form 

Cleaving the sky 1 
" It grieveth me to see thy spirit tamed — 

Gone out the hght 

That in thine eyeball flamed. 
When to the midday sun thy steady flight 

Was proudly aimed ! 
" Like a young dove forsaken, is the look 

Of thy sad eye. 

Who, in some lonely nook, 
Mourns on the willow bough her destiny, 

Beside the brook. 
" Oh, let not me insult thy fallen dignity. 

Thou monarch bird. 

Gazing with vulgar eye 
Upon thy ruin ; for my heart is stirred 

To hear thy cry. 
" Yet, something sterner in thy downward gaze 

Doth seem to lower. 

And deep disdain betrays. 
As if thou cursed man's poorly-acted power, 

And scorned his praise." 



64 



ANNA MARIA WELLS. 



THE OLD ELM TREE. 

Each morning, when my waking eyes first see, 

Through the wreathed lattice, golden clay appear, 

There sits a robin on the old elm ti*ee. 

And with such stirring music fills my ear, 

I might forget that life had pain or fear. 

And feel again as I was wont to do, [new. 

When hope was young, and joy and life itself were 

No miser, o'er his heaps of hoarded gold, 
Nor monarch, in the plenitude of power, 
Nor lover, free the chaste maid to enfold 
Who ne'er hath owned her love till that blest hour. 
Nor poet, couched in rocky nook or bower, 
Knowcth more heartfelt happiness than he, 
That never tiring warbler of the old elm tree. 

From even the poorest of Heaven's creatures, such 

As know no rule but impulse, we may draw 

Lessons of sweet humility, and much 

Of apt instruction in the homely law 

Of nature : and the time hath been, I saw 

Naught, beautiful or mean, but had for me [tree. 

Some charm, even like the warbler of the old elm 

And listening to his joy inspiring lay. 
Some sweet reflections are engendered thence : 
As half in tears, unto myself I say, 
-God, who hath given this creature sources whence 
He such delight may gather and dispense. 
Hath in my heart joy's living fountain placed, 
More free to flow, the oftener of its waves I taste. 



ANNA. 



With the first ray of morning Hght 

Her face is close to mine — her face all smiles : 
She hovers round my pillow like a sprite 
Mingling with tenderness her playful wiles. 
AH the long day 
She 's at some busy play ; 
Or 'twixt her tiny fingers 
The scissors or the needle speeds ; 
Or some sweet story-book she reads. 
And o'er it serious lingers. 

She steps like.some glad creature of the air. 
As if she read her fate, and knew it fair — 
In truth, for fate at all she hath no care. 
Yet hath she tears as well as gladness : 

A butterfly in pain 
Will make her weep for sadness, 
But straight she'll smile again. 
And lately she hath pressed the couch of pain : 

Sickness hath dimmed her eye. 
And on her tender spirit Iain, 
And brought her near to die. 

But like the flower 

That droops at evening hour. 
And opens gayly in the morning, 

Again her quick eye glows. 

And health's fresh rose 
Her soft cheek is adorning. 

Hushed was her childish lay : 
Like some sweet bird did sickness hold her in a net ; 



And when she broke away. 
And shook her wings in the bright day, 
Her recent capture she did quite forget. 
What joy again to hear her blessed voice ! 
My heart, lie still, but in thy quietness rejoice ! 
Again, along the floor and on the stair. 

Coming and going, I hear her rapid feet ; 
Again her little, simple, earnest prayer. 

Hear her, at bedtime, in low voice repeat. 
Again, at table, and the five beside, 

Her dear head rises, smiling with the rest ; 
Again her heart and mind are open wide 

To yield and to receive — bless and be blest — 
Pliant and teachable, and oft revealing 
Thoughts that must ripen into higher feeling, 
Oh, sweet maturity ! — the gentle mood 
Raised to the intellectual and the good ; 
The bright, affectionate, and happy child — 
The woman, pure, intelligent, and mild ! 
It must be so : they can not waste on air 
A mother's labor and a mother's prayer. 



THE FUTURE. 

The flowers, the many flowers, 
That all along the smiling valley grew, 

While the sun lay for hours. 
Kissing from olT their drooping lids the dew ; 

They, to the summer air 
No longer prodigal, their sweet breath yield : 

Vainly, to bind her hair. 
The village maiden seeks them in tlie field. 

The breeze, the gentle breeze, 
That wandered like a frolic child at play, 

Loitering mid blossomed trees, 
Trailing their stolen sweets along its way. 

No more adventuresome. 
Its whispered love is to the violet given ; 

The boisterous North has come. 
And scared the sportive trifler back to heaven. 

The brook, the limpid brook. 
That prattled of its coolness, as it went 

Forth from its rocky nook. 
Leaping with joy to be no longer pent — 

Its pleasant song is hushed : 
The sun no more looks down upon its play — 

Freely, where once it gushed. 
The mountain torrent drives its noisy way. 

The hours, the youthful hours, 
When in the cool shade we were wont to lie. 

Idling with fresh culled flowers. 
In dreams that ne'er could know reahty : 

Fond hours, but half enjoyed, 
Like the sweet summer breeze they passed away. 

And dear hopes were destroyed. 
Like buds that die before the noon of day. 

Young life, young turbulent life, 
If, like the stream, it take a wayward course, 

'Tis lost mid folly's strife — 
O'erwhehned at length by passion's curbless force : 

Nor deem youth's buoyant hours 
For idle hopes or useless musings given — 

Who dreams away his powers. 
The reckless slumberer shall not wake to heaven. 



ANNA MARIA WELLS. 65 


THE WHITE HARE. 


The silent workings of thy heart 




Do almost seem to have a part 


It was the sabhath eve — we went, 


With our humanity ! 


My Geraldine and I, intent 
The twilight hour to pass, 




• 


Where we might liear the water flow, 


THE SEA-BIRD. 


And scent the freiglited winds that blow 




Atliwart the vernal grass. 


Sea-bird ! haunter of the wave. 




Delighting o'er its crest to hover ; 


In darker grandeur — as the day- 


Half engulfed where ya\vns the cave 


Stole scarce perceptibly away — 


The billow forms in rolling over ; 


The purple mountain stood, 


Sea-bird ! seeker of the storm ! 


Wearing the young moon as a crest : 


In its shriek thou dost rejoice ; 


The sun, half sunk in the far west. 


Sending from thy bosom warm 


Seemed mingling vrith the flood. 


Answer shriller than its voice. 


The cooling dews their balm distilled ; 


Bird, of nervous winged flight. 


A holy joy our bosoms thrilled ; 


Flashing silvery to the sun. 


Our thoughts were free as air ; 


Sporting with the sea-foam white — 


And, by one impulse moved, did we 


When will thy wild course be done ? 


Together pour instinctively 


Whither tends it 1 Has the shore 


Our songs of gladness there. 


No alluring haunt for thee 1 


The green wood waved its shade hard by. 


Nook, with tangled vines grovra o'er. 


While thus we wove our harmony : 


Scented shi"ub, or leafy tree 1 


Lured by the mystic strain. 


Is the purple seaweed rarer 


A snow-white hare, that long had been 


Than the violet of the spring ? 


Peering from forth her covert green. 


Is the snowy foam-wreath fairer 


Came bounding o'er the plain. 


Than the apple's blossoming 1 


Her beauty, 't was a joy to note — 
The pureness of her downy coat. 


Shady grove and sunny slope — 


Seek but these, and thou shalt meet 


Her wild yet gentle eye — 


Birds not bonr with storm to cope. 


The pleasure that, despite her fear, 


Hermits of retirement sweet — 


Had led the timid thing so near 


Where no winds too rudely swell, 


* To list our minstrelsy. 


But in whispers, as they pass, 


All motionless, with head inclined. 


Of the fragrant flow'ret tell, 


She stood, as if her heart divined 


Hidden in the tender grass. 


The impulses of ours — 
TiU the last note had died — and then 


There the mockbird sings of love ; 


There the robin builds his nest ; 


Turned half reluctantly again. 


There the gentle-hearted dove. 


Back to her greenwood bowers. 


Brooding, takes her blissful rest. 


Once more the magic sounds we tried — 


Sea-bird, stay thy rapid flight : 


Agam the hai"e was seen to glide 


Gone ! where dark waves foam and dash, 


From out her sylvan shade ; 


Like a lone star on the night — 


Again, as joy had given her wings. 
Fleet as a bird she forward springs 
Along the dewy glade. 


Far I see his white wing flash. 
He obeyeth God's behest. 


All their destiny fulfil : 




Tempests some are born to breast — 


Go, happy thing ! disport at will — 


Some to worship and be still. 


Take thy delight o'er vale and hill. 
Or rest in leafy bower ; 


If to struggle with the storm 


The harrier may beset thy way, 
The cruel snare thy feet betray — 
Enjoy thy little hour ! 


On life's ever-changing sea, 
Where cold mists enwrap the form, 


My hai'sh destiny must be — 
Sea-bird 1 thus may I abide 


We know not, and we ne'er may know. 


Cheerful the allotment given. 


The hidden springs of joy and wo, 


And, rising o'er the ruffled tide, 


That deep within do Ue : 
5 


Escape at last, like thee, to heaven ! 



MARIA JAMES. 



In 1833, Bishop Potter, then one of the 
professors in Union College, was shown by 
his wife, who had just returned from a visit 
to Rhinebeck on the Hudson, the Ode for the 
Fourth of July which is quoted on the next 
page, and informed that it was the production 
of a young woman at service in the family 
of a friend there, whom he had often noticed 
on account of her retiring and modest man- 
ners, and who had been in that capacity more 
than twenty years. When further advised 
that these lines had been thrown off with 
great rapidity and apparent ease, and that 
the writer had been accustomed almost from 
childhood to find pleasure in similar efforts, 
the information awakened a lively interest, 
and led him to examine other pieces from 
the same hand, and finally to introduce them 
to the public notice, in a preface over his 
signature to the volume entitled Wales and 
other Poems, by Maria James, published in 
1S39. 

Maria James is the daughter of poor but 
pious parents who emigrated to this country 
from Wales, near the beginning of the pres- 
ent century, and settled near the slate quar- 
ries in the northern part of New York. Her 
remaining history is told in an interesting 
manner in the following extracts from a let- 
ter which she addressed to Mrs. Potter : 

" Toward the completion of my seventh year, I 
foimd myself ou ship-board, surrounded by men, -wo- 
men, and children, Ti'hose faces wei'e unknown to me. 
It was here, perhaps, that I first began to learn in a 
particular manner from observation — soon discovering 
that those children who were liandsome or smartly 
dressed received much more attention than myself, 
who had neither of these recommendations : how- 
ever, instead of giving way to feelings of envy and 
jealousy, my imagination was revelling among the 
fmits and flowers which I expected to find in the 
land to which we were bound. I also had an oppor- 
tunity to learn a little English during the voyage, as 
' Take care,' and ' Get out of the way,' seemed reit- 
erated fi'om land's end to land's end. 

'* After our family were settled in some measure, 
I was sent to school, my father having commenced 
teaching me at home some time previous. I think 
there was no particular apL*uess to leam about me. 
After I could read, I took much delight in John 
Rogers's last advice to his children, with all the 
excellent et cffiteras to be found in the old English 
Primer. I was also fond of reading the common 
hymnbook. The New Testament was my only 
school-book. Thus accomplished, I happened one 



day to hear a yotmg woman read Addison's inimita- 
ble paraphrases of the twenty-third psalm : I listened 
as to tlie voice of an angel. Those who know the 
power of good reading or good speaking, need not 
be told that, where there is an ear for sound, the 
manner in which either is done wiU make every pos- 
sible difference. This, probably, was the first time 
that I ever heard a good reader. 

" My parents again removing, I found myself in a 
school where the elder children used the Amei-ican 
Preceptor. I listened in transport as they read 
Dwight's Columbia, which must Iiave been merely 
from the smoothness of its somid, as I could have bad 
butvei-y httle knowledge of its meaning. I was now 
ten years of age, and as an opportunity' offered which 
my parents saw fit to embrace, 1 entered the family 
in which I now reside, where, besides learning many 
useful housebold occupations, that care and attention 
was paid to my words and actions as is seldom to be 
met with in such situations. I had before me some 
of the best models for good reading and good speak- 
ing; and any chikl, with a natural ear for the beauti- 
ful in lan.sTiage, will notice these things, and though 
their conversation may not differ materinlly from that 
of others in their line of life, they will almost invari- 
ably tiditk in the style of their admiration. 

" The Bible here, as in my father's house, was the 
book of books, the beads of the family constantly im- 
pressing on all, that ' the fear of the Lord is the be- 
ginning of wisdom,' and that to 'depart from iniquity 
is understanding.' There is scarcely anything that 
can aft'ect the mind of young persons like those les- 
sons of wisdom which fall fi'om lips they love and re- 
spect. 

" Besides frequent opportunities of hearing instruc- 
tive books read, my leisure liours were often devoted 
to one or the otherof these works: first, the Female 
Mentor, comprising within itself a little epitome of 
elegant literature; two odd volimies of the Adven- 
turer; Miss Flannah More's Cheap Repository; and 
Pilgrim's Progress. During a period of nearly seven 
years which 1 spent in this family, the newspapers 
were more or less filled with the wars and fightings 
of our European neighbors. My imagination took 
fire, and I lent an ear to the whispers of the muse. 
' 'T W03 tlien that first she pruned the wing ; 
'Twaa then she fir^t essayed to sing.' 
But the wing was powerless, and the song without 
melody. As I advanced toward womanhood, 1 shnirdt 
from the nickname of poet, w^hich had been awarded 
me : the very idea seemed the heiglit of presump- 
tion. In my seventeenth year I left this situation to 
learn dressmaking. I sewed neatly, but too slow to 
insure success. My failure in this was always a sub- 
ject of regret. After this, 1 lived some time in dif- 
ferent situations, ray employment being principally 
in the nursery. In each of these different families I 
had access to those who spoke the purest English, 
also fi-equeut opportunities of hearing correct and 
elegant readers — at least I believed them such by 
the effect pvoJuced on my feelings; and although 
nineteen years have nearly passed a'way since my 
retuni to the home of my earlj' life, I have not ceased 
to remember with gratitude the kind treatment re- 
ceived from different persons at this period, while 
my attachment to their children has not been oblit- 
erated by time nor by absence, and is likely to con- 
tinue till death 

** With respect to the few poems which you have 



MARIA JAMES. 



67 



been so kind as to overlook, I can hardly say myself 
how they came to be written. I recollect, many 
years ago, of trying something in this way for the 
amusement of a little boy who was very dear to me ; 
except this, with a very feiv other pieces, long for- 
gotten, no attempt of the hind was made until The 
Mother's Lament, and Elijah, with a number of epi- 
taphs, which were written previous to those which 
have been produced within the last sis years. The 
subject of the Hummingbird, (the oldest of these,) 
was taken captive by my own hand. The Adven- 
ture is described just as it happened. Wales is a 

kind of reti-nspect of the days of childhood Of 

Ambition, permit me, dear madam, to call your at- 
tention to the summer of 1832, when yom-self, with 
the other ladies of this family, were reading Bouiri- 
enne's Life of Napoleon Bonaparte : I had opportu- 
nities of hearing a little sometimes, "which brought 
forcibly to my mind certain conversations which I 
heai-d in the early pai't of my life respecting this 
wonderfiil man. The poem was produced the fol- 
lowing summer. In the year 1819, The American 
Flag appeared in the New York American, signed 
' Croaker & Co.' : this kindled up the poetic fires in 
my breast, which, however, did not iind utterance 
until fourteen years afterward, in the Ode on the 
Fourth of July, 18."J3. This appearing in print, some 



who did not know me very well inquired of others, 
' Do you suppose she ever wi'ote it V Being an- 
swered in the affirmative, it was imagined ' she must 
have had help.' These remarks gave rise to the ques- 
tion. What is poetry ? The Albmn was begun and 
earned through "without previous arrangement or 
design, laid aside when the mind was wearj-, and 
taken up again just as the subject happened to pre- 
sent itself. Friendship was produced in the same 
way. Many of the pieces are written from impres- 
sions received in youth, particularly the Whip-poor- 
will, the Meadow Lark, the Firefly, &c." 

In the Introduction to her poems Bishop 
Potter vindicates in an admirable manner, 
against the sneers of Johnson, the propriety 
of recognising the abilities of the humblest 
classes. It -will be seen that the poems of 
Maria James "^vill bear a very favorable com- 
parison "with the compositions of any of the 
"uneducated poets" "whose names are cele- 
brated in Mr. Southey's fine essay upon this 
subject. 



ODE, 

WRITTEN FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1833. 

I SEE that banner proudly wave — 

Yes, proudly waving yet ; 
Not a stripe is torn from the broaJ array, 

Not a single star is set; 
And the eagle, vv'ith unruffled plume, 
Is soaring aloft in the welkin dome. 

Not a leaf is plucked from the branch he bears; 

From his grasp not an arrow has flown ; 
The mist that obstructed his vision is past, 

And the murmur of discord is gone : 
For he sces,with a glance over mountain and plain, 
The Union unbroken, from Georgia to Maine. 

Far southward, in that sunny clime, 

Where bright magnolias bloom, 
And the orange with the lime tree vies 

In shedding rich perfume, 
A sound was heard like the ocean's roar, 
As its surges break on the rocky shore. 

Was it the voice of the tempest loud. 

As it felled some lofty tree. 
Or a sudden flash from a passing storm 

Of heaven's artillery 1 
But it died away, and the sound of doves 
Is heard again in the scented groves. 

The links are all united still 

That form the golden chain, 
And peace and plenty smile around, 

Throughout the wide domain : 
How feeble is language, how cold is the lay. 
Compared with the joy of this festival day — 

To see that banner waving yet — 

Ay, waving proud and high — 
No rent in all its ample folds. 

No stain of crimson dye ; 
And the eagle spreads his ])inions fair, 
And mounts aloft in the fields of air. 



THE PILGRIMS. 

TO A LADY. 

We met as pilgrims meet. 

Who are bound to a distant shrine, 
Who spend the hours in converse sweet 
From noon to the day's decline — 
Soul mingling with soul, as they tell of their fears 
And their hopes, as they pass thro' the valley of tears. 

And still they commune with delight, 

Of pleasures or toils by the way. 
The winds of the desert that chill them by night. 
Or heat that oppresses by day : 
For one to the faithful is ever at hand, 
As the shade of a rock in a weary land. 

We met as soldiers meet. 

Ere yet the fight is won — 
Ere joyful at their captain's feet 
Is laid their armor down : 
Each strengthens his fellow to do and to bear, 
In hope of the crown which the victors wear. 

f Thougli daily the strife they renew. 

And their foe his thousands o'ercome, 
Yet the promise unfailing is ever in view 
Of safety, protection, and home : [conferred. 
Where they knew that their sovereign such favor 
" As eye hath not seen, as the ear hath not heard." 

We met as seamen meet. 

On ocean's watery plain, 
Where billows rise and tempests beat. 
Ere the destined port they gain : 
But tempests they baffle, and billows they brave, 
Assured that their pilot is mighty to save. 
They dwell on the scenes which have past, 

Of perils they still may endure — 
The haven of rest, where they anchor at last. 
Where bliss is complete and secure — 
Till its towers and spires arise from afar, 
(To the eye of faith,) as some radiant star. 



68 



MARIA JAMES. 



We met as brethren meet, 

Who are cast on a foreign strand, 
Whose hearts are cheered as they hasten to greet 

And commune of their native land — 
Of their Father's house in that world above, 
Of his tender care and his boundless love. 

The city so fair to behold. 

The redeemed in their vestments of white — 
Tn those mansions of rest, where, njjd pleasures un- 

They finally hope to unite: [told. 

Where ceaseless ascriptions of praise shall ascend 
To God and the Lamb in a world without end. 



THE SOLDIER'S GEAVE.* 

In Galha's sunny fields. 

Where blooms the eglantine. 

And where luxuriant clusters bend 
The fruitful vine — 

The youth to manhood rose, 

('T is fancy tells the tale :) 
His step was swift as mountain deer 

That skims the vale. 

And his eagle glance. 

Which told perception keen, 

" Of will to do and soul to dare," 
Deep fixed within. 

Perchance a mother's love, 

A father's tender care, 
With every kindly household bond. 

Were his to share. 

Perchance the darling one. 

The best beloved was he. 
Of all that gathered round the hearth 

From infancy. 

How fair life's morn to him ! 

The world was blithe and gay — 
Hope, beckoning with an angel's smile, 

Led on the way. 

He left his native plain, 

He bade his home farewell — 

And she, the idol of his heart. 
The faijr Adele. 

Though sad the parting hour, 
What ardor fixed his breast, 

To view the streams, to tread the soil. 
Far in the West ! 

From where the Huron's wave 
First greets the ruddy light, 

To where Superior, in its glow, 
Lies calm and bright — 

Where rose the forest deep, 
Where stretched the giant shore, 

From Del Fuego's utmost bound 
To Labrador. 



* The grave here spoken of was pointed out to the wri- 
ter lis the linal resting place of a French oificer — a single 
mound, without a stone to mark the spot, in Rutland coun- 
ty, Vermont. 



How many a gallant ship 

Since then has crossed the sea. 

Deep freighted from the western world — 
But where is he 1 

Oh, ne'er beside that hearth 
The unbroken ring shall meet. 

To tell th' adventurous tale, or join 
In converse sweet ! 

For in that stranger-land 

His lonely grave is seen. 
Where northern mountains lifl; their heads 

In fadeless green. 



TO A SINGING BIRD. 

HnsH, hush that lay of gladness, 

It fills my heart with pain. 
But touch some note of sadness, 

Some melancholy strain. 
That tells of days departed. 

Of hopes for ever flown — 
Some golden dream of other years. 

To riper age unknown. 

The captive, bowed in sadness, 

Impatient to be free. 
Might call that lay of gladness 

The voice of liberty : 
Again the joyous carol, 

Warm gushing, peals along. 
As if thy very latest breath 

Would spend itself in song. 

Oft as I hear those tones of thine 

Will thoughts like these intrude — 
" If once compared, thy lot with mine, 

How cold my gratitude ; , 
Though gloom or sunshine mark the hours, 

Thy bosom, ne'ertheless, 
Will pour, as from its inmost fount, 

The tide of thankfulness." 



GOOD FRIDAY. 

The scene is fresh before us, 
When Jesus drained the cup, 

As new the day comes o'er us 
When he was offered up — 

The veil in sunder rending. 
The types and shadows flee. 

While heaven and earth are bending 
Their gaze on Calvary. 

Should mortal dare in numbers. 
Where angels, trembling, stand — 

Or wake the harp that slumbers 
In flaming seraph's hand ? 

Then tell the wondrous story 
Where rolls Salvation's wave, 

And give Him all the glory. 
Who came the lost to save. 



MARIA BROOKS. 



It may be doubted whether, in the long 
catalogue of those whose works illustrate 
and vindicate the intellectual character and 
position of woman, there are many names 
that will shine with a clearer, steadier, and 
more enduring lustre, than that of Makia 

DEL OCCXDENTE. 

Makia Gowen, afterward Mrs. Bkooks, 
upon whom tliis title was conferred origin- 
ally, I believe, by the poet Southey, was de- 
scended from a Welsh family that settled in 
Charlestown, near Boston, sometime before 
the Revolution. A considerable portion of 
the liberal fortune of her grandfather was 
lost by the burning of that city in 1775, and 
he soon afterward removed to Medford, 
across the Mystic river, where Maria Gowen 
was born about the year 1795. Her father 
was a man of education, and among his inti- 
mate friends were several of the professors 
of Harvard college, whose occasional visits 
varied the pleasures of a rural life. From 
this society she derived, at an early period, 
a taste for letters and learning. Before the 
completion of her ninth year, she had com- 
mitted to memory many passages from the 
best poets ; and her conversation excited 
special wonder by its elegance, variety, and 
wisdom. She grew in beauty, too, as she 
grew in years, and when her father died, a 
bankrupt, before she had attained the age of 
fourteen, she was betrothed to a merchant 
of Boston, who undertook the completion of 
her education, and as soon as she quitted the 
school was married to her. Her early wo- 
manbood was passed in commercial alBu- 
ence ; but the loss of several vessels at sea 
in which her husband was interested was 
followed by other losses on land, and years 
were spent in comparative indigence. In 
that remarkable book, Idomen, or The Vale 
of Yumuri, she says, referring to this period : 
" Our table had been hospitable, our doors 
open to many ; but to part with our well- 
garnished dwelling had now become inevit- 
able. We retired, with one servant, to a re- 
mote house of meaner dimensions, and were 



sought no longer by those who had come in 
our wealth. I looked earnes'tly around me ; 
the present was cheerless, the future dark 
and fearful. My parents were dead, my few 
relatives in distant countries, where they 
thought perhaps but little of my happiness. 
Burleigh I had never loved other than as a 
father and protector ; but he had been the 
benefactor to my fallen family, and to him I 
owed comfort, education, and every ray of 
pleasure that had glanced before me in this 
world. But the sun of his energies was set- 
ting, and the faults which had balanced his 
virtues increased as his fortune declined. He 
might live through many years of misery, 
and to be devoted to him was my duty while a 
spark of his life remained. I strove to nerve 
my heart for the worst. Still there were mo- 
ments when fortitude became faint with en- 
durance, and visions of happiness that might 
have been mine came smiling to my ima- 
gination. I wept and prayed in agony." 

In this period, poetry was resorted to for 
amusement and consolation. At nineteen 
she wrote a metrical romance, in seven can- 
tos, but it was never published. It was fol- 
lowed by many shorter lyrical pieces, which 
were printed anonymously ; and in 1820, 
after favorable judgments of it had been ex- 
pressed by some literary friends,* she gave 
to the public a small volume entitled Judith, 
Esther, and other Poems, by a Lover of the 
Fine Arts. It contained many fine passages, 
and gave promise of the powers of which 

* One of the friends here alluded to was the late Dr. 
Kirkland, president of Harvard college- On a blank leaf 
of the first copy of the volume that she received, she wrote 
the following lines, which have not before been printed : 

should o'er my lialf-fleiigeil mu^e attain the lieight 

She trembJitig Ionics, jet fesra to tempt no more. 
Still will she bless, though wounded in her flight. 

The generous hand that gave her strength to soar. 
But should resistless tempests Jietcely meet. 

And cast het, struggling, to the whelming wave, 
Even then, one tender, grateful pulse shall beat 

In her torn heart, for him who strove to save. 

Writing: to me In 1843, Mrs. Brooks enclosed these verses, 
and observed : " I recall them after an interval of twenty- 
years. They have meaning and sincerity in them ; but 
having during th.tt time extended ray acquaintance with 
muses and angels, I can not now bear to see either of 
them repreaen'ted with plumage im their wings. Some 
of the most celebrated painters have, however, Bet the 
example." 



70 



MARIA BROOKS. 



the maturity is illustrated by Zophiel. The 
volume was dedicated to a friend 

who cheered her first faint lays 
With the hope-kindling breath of timely praise, 

in the following verses : 

Lady, I 've woven for thee a wreath — 
Though pale the buds that gem it, 

Think of the gloom they grew beneath, 
Nor utterly contemn it. 

Scarce in my cradle was I laid. 
Ere Fate relentless bound me. 

Deep in a narrow vale of shade. 

Where prisoning rocks surround me. 

Lady, I 've culled a vsTeath for you, 

From the few flowers that grow there, 

Because 'twas all that I could do 
To lull the sense of wo there. 

Yet, lady, I have known delight 
The heart with bliss overflowing. 

Endearing forms have blest my sight 
With soul and beauty glowing. 

For Hope came all aiTayed in hght. 

And pitying stood before me, 
Smiled on each tlinty barrier's height. 

And to its summit bore me. 

She showed many a scene divine — 
She told me — and descended — 

Of joys that never must be mine — ■ 
And then — her power was ended. 

Oh, pleasures dead as soon as born. 

To be forgotten never ! — 
Oh, moments fleeting, few, and gone, 

To be regretted ever I 

A few sweet waves of glowing light 

Upon Time's dreary ocean. 
Light gales that wake the dead, calm night 

To momentary motion ; 

Bright beams that m their beauty bless 

A dark and desert plain, 
To show its fearful loneliness. 

And disappear again. 

Yet oft she. hovers o'er me now. 

Each soothmg effort making : 
So mothers kiss the infant's brow, 

But can not cure its aching. 

Then, lady, oh, accept my wreath, 
Though all besides condemn it ; 

Think of the gloom it grew beneath, 
IV or utterly contemn it. 

In the two principal poems are presented char- 
acters entirely different in mind and person, 
but equally entitled to admiration. In Judith 
are exhibited prudence, fortitude, and decis- 
ion, softened by a feminine sensibility ; in 
Esther a soul painfully alive to every tender 
emotion, and a noble elevation of mind strug- 
gling with constitutional softness and timid- 
ity. Many passages remind us of her ma- 



turest style, as this description of the slayer 

of the Assyrian : 

With even step, in mourning garb arrayed. 

Fair Judith walked, and grandeur marked her air ; 
Though humble dust, in pious sprmklings laid, 

Soiled the dark ti*esses of her copious hair. 
And this picture of a boy : 
Softly supine his rosy limbs reposed. 

His locks curled high, leaving the forehead bare : 
And o'er his eyes the light lids gently closed. 

As they had feared to hide the brilhance there. 

And this description of the preparations of 

Esther to appear before Ahasuerus : 

" Take ye, my maids, this mournful garb away ; 

Bring all my glowing gems and garments fair ; 
A nation's fate impending hangs to-day 

But on my beauty and your duteous care." 

Prompt to obey, her ivoiy form they lave ; 

Some comb and braid her hair of wavy gold ; 
Some softly wipe away the limpid wave [rolled. 

That o'er her dimply limbs in drops of fragrance 

Refreshed and faultless from then- hands she came, 
Like form celestial clad in raiment bright ; 

O'er all her garb rich India's treasures flame. 
In mingling beams of rambow-colored light. 

Graceful she entered the forbidden court. 
Her bosom throbbing with her purpose high ; 

Slow were her steps, and unassured her port. 
While hope just trembled in her azm'e eye. 

Light on the marble fell her ermine tread. 

And when the king, reclined in musing mood, 

Lifts, at the gentle sound, his stately head. 
Low at Ids feet the sweet intruder stood. 

Among the shorter poems are several that 
are marked by fancy and feeling, and a grace- 
ful versification, of one of which, an elegy, 
these are the opening verses : 
Lone in the desert, drear and deep. 

Beneath the forest's whispering shade, 
Where brambles twine and mosses creep. 
The lovely Charlotte's grave is made. 

But though no breathing marble there 
Shah gleam in beauty through the gloom, 

The turf that hides her golden hair 

With sweetest desert-flowers shall bloom. 

And while the moon her tender Ught 
Upon the hallowed scene shall fling. 

The mocking-bird shall sit all night 
Among the dewy leaves, and sing. 

The following clever translation of tne 
Greek of Moschus, from this volume, was 
made in the author's seventeenth year : 

CtrPID THE RCXAWAY. 

Listen, hsten, softly, clear — 
Venus' accents woo the ear ! 
" Gentle stranger, hast thou seen," 
Thus begins the beauteous queen : 
" Hast thou seen my Cupid stray. 
Lurking, near the public way 1 



MARIA BROOKS. 



71 



Bring him back, and thou shalt sip 
A kiss at least f;om Venus' lip. 
'Tis a boy of well-known name, 
Thou canst know him by his fame : 
Fair his face, but overspread. 
Cheek and brow, with rosy red ; 
And his eyes of azure bright 
Sparkle with a fiery light. 
Small and snowy are his hands, 
But their tender power commands 
Even Pluto's empire wide ; 
Acheron's polluted tide 
Loses at their gentle waving 
Half the terror of its raving. 
At his dimpled shoulders move 
Plumy pinions like a dove. 
And or youth or maiden meeting. 
When among the flowers he 's flitting, 
Like a swallow swift he darts, 
Perching on their beating hearts. 
From his back a quiver fair, 
Golden like his curly hair. 
Pendent falls in purple ties. 
Scattering radiance as he flies. 
He the slender dart can throw, 
Singing from his polished bow. 
Far as heaven : nor will he spare 
Even me, his mother, there. 
And whene'er a "\dctim bleeds. 
Laughing, glorj'ing in his deeds. 
Still with added fires to scorch, 
He, a Uttle hidden torch. 
Deeming not his mischief done, 
Kindles at the glowing sun. 
If the urchin thou shouldst find. 
Let not pity move thy mind ; 
Suffer not his tears to grieve thee, 
They but trickle to deceive thee. 
If he smile upon thee, haste, 
Heed him not, but bind him fast. 
Should he pout his lips to kiss. 
Oh ! avoid the treacherous bliss ! 
Turn thy head, nor dare to meet 
Of his breath the poison sweet. 
Should he ply his potent charms. 
And presenting thee his arms. 
Graceful kneel, and sweetly say, 
' Take my proffered gifi s, I pray,' 
Do not touch them — still disdain — 
AU are firaught with venomed pain." 

In the summer of 1823 Mr. Brooks died, 
and a paternal uncle soon after invited the 
poetess to Cuba, for which island she sailed 
on the 20th of the following October. Here, 
in 1824, she completed the first canto of Zo- 
phiel, or The Bride of Seven, which had been 
planned and nearly written before she left 
Boston, and it was published in that city in 
1825. The second canto was finished in Cu- 
ba in the opening of 1827 ; the third, fourth, 
and fifth, in 1828, and the sixth in the be- 
ginning of 1829. The uncle of Mrs. Brooks 



was now dead, and he had left to her his 
coffee plantation and other property, which 
afforded her a liberal income. She returned 
again to the United States, and resided more 
than a year in the vicinity of Dartmouth Coir 
lege, where her son was pursuing his stud- 
ies ; and in the autumn of 1830, in company 
with her only surviving brother, Mr. Ham- 
mond Gowen, of Quebec, she went to Paris, 
where she passed the following winter. The 
curious and learned notes to Zophiel were 
written in various places — some in Cuba, 
some in Hanover, some in Canada (which she 
visited during her residence at Hanover), 
some at Paris, and the rest at Keswick, in 
England, the home of Robert Southey, where 
she passed the spring of 1831. When she 
quitted the hospitable home of this much 
honored and much attached friend, she left 
with him the completed work, which he sub- 
sequently saw through the press, correcting 
the proofsheets himself, previous to its ap- 
pearance in London, in 1833. On leaving 
Keswick, Mrs. Brooks addressed to Southey 
the following poem ; and the subsequent cor- 
respondence between the two poets, which I 
have seen, shows that the promise of con- 
tinued regard was fulfilled : 

TO KOBEKT SOUTHET, ESQ,- 

Oh ! laureled bard, how can I part, 
Those cheering smiles no more to see, 

Until my soothed and solaced heart 
Pours forth one grateful lay to thee 1 

Fair virtue tuned thy youthM breath. 
And peace and pleasure bless thee now ; 

For love and beauty guard the wreath 
That blooms upon thy manly brow. 

The Indian, leaning on his bow, 

On hostile cliff, in desert drear. 
Cast with less joy his glance below. 

When came some friendly warrior near ; — 

The native dove of that warm isle 

Where oft, with flowers, my lyre was drest. 
Sees with less Joy the sun a while 

When vertic rains have drenched her nest. 

Than I, a stranger, first beheld 

Thine eye's harmonious welcome given 

With gentle word, which, as it swelled. 
Came to my heart benign as heaven. 

Soft be thy sleep as mists that rest 

On Skiddaw's top at summer morn ; 
Smooth be thy days as Denvent's breast 

When summer light is almost gone ! 
And yet, for thee why breathe a prayer ? 

I deem thy fate is given in trust 
To seraphs, who by daily care 

Would prove that He-iven is not unjust 



72 



MARIA BROOKS. 



And treasured stall thine image be 
In Memory's purest, holiest shrine, 

While truth and honor glow in thee, 
Or life's warm, quivering pulse is mine. 

The materials of Zophiel are universal ; 
that is, such as may be appropriated by every 
polished nation. In all the most beautiful 
oriental systems of religion, including otir 
own, may be found such beings as its char- 
acters. The early fathers of Christianity not 
only believed in them, but wrote cumbrous 
folios upon their nature and attributes. It is 
a fact deserving of notice, that they never 
doubted the existence and the power of the 
Grecian and Roman gods, but supposed them 
to be fallen angels, who had caused them- 
selves to be worshipped under particular 
forms and for particular characteristics. To 
what an extent and to how very late a period 
this belief has prevailed, may be learned from 
a remarkable little work of Fontenelle,* in 
which that pleasing \vriter endeavors serious- 
ly to disprove that any preternatural power 
was illustrated in the responses of the ancient 
oracles. The Christian belief in good and evil 
angels is too beautiful to be laid aside. Their 
actual and present existence can be disproved 
neither by analogy, philosophy, nor theolo- 
gy, nor can it be questioned without casting a 
doubt also upon the whole system of our reli- 
gion. This religion, by many a fanciful skep- 
tic, has been called barren and gloomy ; but 
setting aside all the legends of the Jews, and 
confining ourselves entirely to the generally 
received Scriptures, there will be found suffi- 
cient food for an imagination warm as that of 
Homer, Apelles, or Praxiteles. It is astonish- 
ing that such rich materials for poetry should 
for so many centuries have been so little re- 
garded, appBopriated, or even perceived. 

The story of Zophiel, though accompanied 
by many notes, is simple and easily followed. 
Reduced to prose, and a child, or any person 
of the commonest apprehension, would read 
it with satisfaction. It is in six cantos, and 
is supposed to occupy the time of nine months: 
from the blooming of roses at Ecbatana to the 
coming in of spices at Babylon. Of this time 
the greater part is supposed to elapse be- 
tween the second and third cantos, where 
Zophiel thus speaks of Egla to Phraerion: 
Yet still she bloomed — uninjured, innocent — 
Though now for seven sweet moons by Zophiel 
watched and wooed. 

* Hiatoire des Oracles. 



The king of Medea, introduced in the sec- 
ond canto, is an ideal personage ; but the his- 
tory of that country, near the time of the 
second captivity, is very confused, and more 
than one young prince like Sardius migl\t 
have reigned and died without a record. So 
much of the main story, however, as relates 
to human life is based upon sacred or profane 
history ; and we have sufficient authority for 
the legend of an angel's passion for one of 
the fair daughters of our own world. It was 
a custom in the early ages to style heroes, to 
raise to the rank of demigods, men who were 
distinguished for great abilities, qualities, or 
actions. Above such men the angels who 
are supposed to have visited the earth, were 
but one grade exalted, and they were capable 
of participating in human pains and pleas- 
ures. Zophiel is described as one of those 
who fell with Lucifer, not from ambition or 
turbulence, but from friendship and excessive 
admiration of the chief disturber of the tran- 
quillity of heaven : as he declares, when 
thwarted by his betrayer, in the fourth canto : 

Though the first seraph formed, how could I tell 
The waj's of guile 1 What marvels I believed 

When cold ambition mimicked love so well 
That half the sons of heaven looked on deceived ! 

During the whole interview in which this 
stanza occurs, the deceiver of men and an- 
gels exhibits his alleged power of inflicting 
pain. He says to Zophiel, after arresting his 
course : 

" Sublime Intelligence ! 

Once chosen for my friend and worthy me : 
Not so wouldst thou have labored to be hence, 

Had my eniprise been crowned with victory. 
When I was bright in heaven, thy seraph eyes 

Sought ,only mine. But he who eveiy power 
Beside, while hope allured him, could despise, 

Changed and forsook me in misfortune's hour." 

To which Zophiel replies : 

" Changed, and forsook thee 1 this from thee to me 1 

Once noble spirit ! Oh ! had not too much 
My o'erfond heart adored thy fallacy, 

I had not now been here to bear thy keen reproach ; 
Forsook thee in misfortune ? at thy side 

I closer fought as perils thickened round, 
Watched o'er thee fallen ; the light of heav'n denied, 

But proved my love more fcn'cnt and profound. 
Prone as thou wert, had I been mortal bom. 

And owned as many lives as leaves there be, 
From all Hyrcania by his tempest torn 

I had lost, one by one, and given the last for thee. 
Oh ! had th)' plighted pact of faith been kept. 

Still unaccomplished were the curse of sin ; 
Mid all the woes th}' ruined followers wept. 

Had friendship lingered, hell could not have been." 



MARIA BROOKS. 



73 



Phraerion, another fallen angel, but of a 
nature gentler than that of Zophiel, is thus 
introduced : 
Harmless Phraerion, formed to dwell on high. 

Retained the looks that had been his above ; 
And his harmonious hp, and sweet blue eye, 

Soothed the faUen seraph's heart, and changed his 
No soul creative in this being born, [scorn to love ; 

Its restless, daring, fond aspirings hid ; 
Within the vortex of rebellion drawn, 

He joined the shining ranks as others did. 
Success but Uttle had advanced ; defeat 

He thought so little, scarce to him were worse ; 
And, as he held in heaven inferior seat. 

Less was his bliss, and lighter was his curse. 
He formed no plans for happiness : content 

To curl the tendril, fold the bud ; his pain 
So hght, he scarcely felt his banishment. 

Zophiel, perchance, had held him in disdain ; 
But, formed for friendship, from his o'erfraught soul 

'T was such relief his burning thoughts to poiu 
In other ears, that oft the strong control [more. 

Of pride he felt them burst, and could restrain no 
Zophiel was soft, but yet all flame ; by turns 

Love, grief remorse, shame, pity, jealousy, 
Each boundless in his breast, impels or burns : 

His joy was bliss, his pain was agony. 

Such are the principal preterhuman char- 
acters in the poem. Egla, the heroine, is a 
Hebress, of perfect beauty, who lives with 
her parents not far from the ci ty of Ecbatana, 
and has been saved by stratagem from a gen- 
eral massacre of captives under a former king 
of Medea. Being brought before the reign- 
ing monarch to answer for the supposed 
murder of Meles, she exclaims : 

Sad from my birth, nay, bom upon that day 
"When perished all my race, my infant ears 

Were opened first vrith groans ; and the first ray 
I saw, came dimly through my mother's tears. 

Zophiel is described throughout the poem 
as burning with the admiration of virtue, yet 
frequently betrayed into crime by the pursuit 
of pleasure. Straying accidentally to the 
grove of Egla, he is struck with her beauty, 
and finds consolation in her presence. His first 
appearance to her is beautifully described : 
in the dusky room, where she mourned her 
destiny, is suddenly a light, then something 
like a silvery cloud : 

Tlie form it hid 
Modest emerged, as might a youth beseem ; 

Save a shght scarf, his beauty bare, and white 
As cygnet's bosom on some silver stream; 

Or young Narcissus, when to woo the light 
Of its first morn, that floweret open springs; 

And near the maid he comes with timid gaze, 
And gently fans her with his fiill-spread wings, 

Transparent as the cooling gush that plays 



From ivory fount. Each bright prismatic tint 

Still vanishing, returning, blending, changing 
About their tender mystic texture glint. 

Like colors o'er the fullblown bubble ranging, 
That pretty urchins launch upon the ah, 

And laugh to see it vanish ; yet, so bright, 
More like — and even that were faint compare — 

As shaped from some new rainbow. Rosy light, 
Like that which pagans say the dewy car 

Precedes of theh Aurora, clipped him round. 
Retiring as he moved ; and evening's star 

Shamed not the diamond coronal that bound 
His curly locks. And still to teach his face 

Expression dear to her he wooed, he sought ; 
And in his hand he held a little vase 

Of virgin gold, in strange devices v^rought. 

He appears however at an unfortunate mo- 
ment, for the fair Judean has just yielded to 
the entreaties of her mother and assented to 
proposals offered by Meles, a noble of the 
country ; but Zophiel causes his rival to ex- 
pire suddenly on entering the bridal apart- 
ment, and his previous life at Babylon, as 
revealed in the fiflh canto, shows that he was 
not undeserving of his doom. Despite her 
extreme sensibility, Egla has much strength 
of character ; she is conscientious and cau- 
tious, and she regards the advances of Zo- 
phiel with distrust and apprehension. Meles 
being missed, she is brought to court to an- 
swer for his murder. Her sole fear is for her 
parents, who are the only Hebrews in the 
kingdom, and are suifered to live but through 
the clemency of Sardius, a young prince who 
has lately come to the throne, and who, like 
many oriental monarchs, reserves to himself 
the privilege of decreeing death. The king 
is convinced of her innocence, and, struck 
with her extraordinary beauty and character, 
resolves suddenly to make her his queen. 
We know of nothing in its way finer than 
the description which follows, of her intro- 
duction, in the simple costume of her coun- 
try, to a gorgeous banqueting hall in which 
he sits with his assembled chiefs : 

With unassured yet graceful step advancing, 

The light vermilion of her cheek more warm 
For doubtful modesty ; wdiile all were glancing 

Over the strange attire that well became such form. 
To lend her space the admiring band gave way ; 

The sandals on her silvery feet were blue ; 
Of safiron tint her robe, as when young day 

Spreads softly o'er the heavens, and tints the 
trembling dew. 
Light was that rohe as mist ; and not a gem 

Or ornament impedes its wavy fold. 
Long and profuse, save that, al)Ove its hem, 

'T was broidered with pomegranate wreath, in 
gold. 



74 



MARIA BROOKS. 



And, by a silken cincture, broad and blue, 

In shapely guise about the waist confined, 
Blent with the curls that, of a lighter hue, 

Half floated, waving in their length behind ; 

The other half, in braided tresses twined. 

Was decked with rows of pearls, and sapphire's az- 
Arrangcd with curious skill to imitate [ure too. 

The sweet acacia's blossoms ; just as Hve 
And droop those tender flowers in natural state ; 

And so the trembling gems seemed sensitive, 
And pendent, sometimes touch her neck ; and there 

Seemed shrinking ti'om its softness as ahve. 
And round her arms, flour-white and round and fair. 

Slight bandelets were twined of colors five. 
Like little rainbows seemly on those arms ; 

None of that court had seen the like before. 
Soft, fragrant, bright — so much like heaven her 

It scarce could seem idolatry to adore, [charms, 
He who beheld her hand forgot her face ; 

Yet in that face was all beside forgot ; 
And he who, as she went, beheld her pace, 

And locks profuse, had said, " Nay, turn thee not." 
Placed on a banquet couch beside the king. 

Mid many a sparkling guest no eye forbore ; 
But, like their darts, the wanior princes fling 

Such looks as seemed to pierce, and scan her o'er 
Nor met alone the glare of Up and eye — [and o'er ; 

Charms, but not rare : the gazer stem and cool. 
Who sought but faults, nor fault or spot could spy ; 

In every limb, joint, vein, the maid was beautiftil. 
Save that her Up, like some bud-bursting flower. 

Just scorned the bounds of symmetry, perchance, 
But by its rashness gained an added power, 

Heightening perfection to luxuriance. 
But that was only when she smiled, and when 

Dissolved the intense expression of her eye ; 
And had her spirit love first seen her then, 

He had not doubted her mortaUty. 

Idaspes, the Medean vizier, or prime min- 
ister, has reflected on the maiden's story, and 
is alarmed for the safety of his youthful sov- 
ereign, ■who consents to some delay and ex- 
periment, but will not be dissuaded from his 
design until five inmates of his palace have 
fallen dead in the captive's apartment. The 
last of these is Altheetor, a favorite of the 
king (whose Greek name is intended to ex- 
press his qualities), and the circumstances of 
his death, and the consequent grief of Egla 
and despair of Zophiel, are painted with a 
heauty, power, and passion, scarcely sur- 
passed : 
Touching his golden harp to prelude sweet. 

Entered the youth, so pensive, pale, and fair ; 
Advanced respectful to the virgin's feet, [there. 

And, lowly bending down, made tuneful parlance 
Like perfume, soft his gentle accents rose, 

And sweetly thrilled the gilded roof along ; 
His warm, devoted soul no terror knows, 

And truth and love lend fervor to his song. 
She hides her face upon her couch, that there 

She may not see him die. No groan — she springs 



Frantic between a hope beam and despair, 

And twines her long hair round him as he sings. 
Then thus : " Oh ! being, who unseen, but near 

Art hovering now, behold and pity me ! 
For love, hope, beauty, music — all that's dear, 

Look, look on me, and spare my agon}- ! 
Spirit ! in mercy make not me the cause. 

The hateful cause, of this land being's death ! 
In pity kill me first ! He lives — he draws — 

Thouwilt not blastl he draws his harmless breath!" 

Stdl lives Altheetor ; stiU unguarded strays 

One hand o'er his fallen lyre ; but all his soul 
Is lost — given up. He fain would turn to gaze, 

But can not turn, so twined. Now all that stole 
Through every vein and thrilled each separate nerve. 

Himself could not have told, all wound and clasped 
In her white arms and hair. Ah ! can the)' serve 

To save him } " What a sea of sweets !" he gasped, 
But'twas delight, sound, fi-agrance, aU,were breath- 
ing. 

StiU swell'd the ti-ansport: "Let me look and thank," 
He sighed, (celestial smiles his lips enwreathmg ;) 

" I die — but ask no more," he said, and sank — 
Still by her arms supported — lower — lower — 

As by soft sleep oppressed ; so calm, so fair. 
He rested on the purple tapesti'ied floor. 

It seemed an angel lay reposing there. 

And Zophiel exclaims — 

" He died of love, of the o'erperfect joy 

Of being pitied — prayed for — pressed — by thee ! 
Oh, for the fate of that devoted boy 

I 'd sell my birthright to eternity. 
I 'm not the cause of this, thy last distress. 

Nay ! look upon thy spirit ere he flies ! 
Look on me once, and learn to hate me less !" 

He said, and tears fell fast from his immortal eyes. 

Beloved and admired at first, Egla becomes 
an object of hatred and fear ; for Zophiel be- 
ing invisible to others, her story is discred- 
ited, and she is suspected of murdering by 
some baleful art all who have died in her 
presence. She is, however, sent safely to 
her home, and lives, as usual, in retirement 
with her parents. The visits of Zophiel are 
now unimpeded. He instructs the young 
Jewess in music and poetry ; his admiration 
and affection grow with the hours ; and he 
exerts his immortal energies to preserve her 
from the least pain or sorrow, but selfishly 
confines her as much as possible to solitude, 
and permits for her only such amusements 
as he himself can minister. Her confidence 
in him increases, and in her gentle society 
he almost forgets his fall and banishment. 

But the difference in their natures causes 
him continual anxiety ; knowing her mortali- 
ty, he is always in fear that death or sudden 
blight will deprive him of her; and he con- 
sults with Phraerion on the best means of 



MARIA BROOKS. 



75 



saving her from ihe perils of human exist- 
ence. One evening, 

Round Pliraerion, nearer di'awn. 

One beauteous arm he flung : " First to mj' love ! — 

We'll see her safe ; then to our task till dawn." 

Well pleased, Phraerion answered that embrace ; 

All balmy he with thousand breathing sweets. 
From thousand dewy flowers. " But to what place," 

He said, " will Zophiel go ? who danger greets 
As if 'twere peace. The palace of the gnome, 

Tahathyam, for our purpose most were meet ; 

But then, the wave, so cold and fierce, the gloom. 

The whirlpools, rocks, that gn.ard that deep retreat ! 
Yet there are fountains wliich no sunny ray 

E'er danced upon, and drops come there at last, 
Which, for whole ages, filtering all the way. 

Through all the vems of earth, in winduig maze 
have past. 
These take fi-om mortal beauty every stain. 
And smooth the unseemly lines of age and pain. 

With every wondrous efficacy rife ; 
Nay, once a spirit whispered of a draught. 
Of which a drop, by any mortal quaffed, [life. 

Would save, for terms of years, his feeble, fiickering 
Tahathyam is the son of a fallen angel, and 
lives concealed in the bosom of the earth, 
guarding in his possession a vase of the elixir 
of life, bequeathed to him by a father whom 
he is not perinitted to see. The visit of Zo- 
phiel and Phraerion to this beautiful but un- 
happy creature will remind the reader of the 
splendid creations of Dante : 
The sofl flower spirit shuddered, looked on high, 

And from his bolder brother would have fled ; 
But then the anger kindling in that eye 

He could not bear. So to fair Egla's bed [dread. 

Followed and looked ; then shuddering all with 

To wondrous reahns, unkno^sm to men, he led ; 
Continuing long in sunset course his flight, 

Until for flowery Sicily he bent ; 
Then, where Italia smiled upon the night, [scent. 

Between their nearest shores chose midway his de- 
The sea was calm, and the reflected moon 

Still trembled on its surface ; not a breath 
C urled the broad mirror : night had passed her noon ; 

How^ soft the air ! how cold the depths beneath ! 
The spirits hover o'er that surface smooth, 

Zophiel's white arm around Phraerion's twined. 
In fond caress, his tender cares to soothe, [hind. 

While cither's nearer wing the other's crossed be- 
Well pleased, Phraerion half forgot his dread. 

And first, with foot as white as lotus leaf. 
The sleepy surface of the waves essayed ; [grief 

But then his smile of love gave place to drops of 
How could he for that fluid, dense and chill, 

Change the sweet floods of air they floated on 1 
E'en at the touch his shrmking fibres thrill ; 

But ardent Zophiel, panting, hurries on. 
And (catching his mild brother's tears, with lip 

That whispered courage 'twixt each glowing kiss) 
Persuades to plunge : Umbs, vrings, and locks, they 
dip ; 

Whate'er the other's pains, the lover felt but bliss. 



Quickly he draws Phraerion on, his toil 
Even Ughter than he hoped ; some power benign 

Seems to restrain the surges, while they boil 
Mid crags and caverns, as of his design 

Respectful. That black, bitter element. 
As if obedient to his wish, gave way ; 

So, comforting Phraerion, on he went, 
And a high, craggy arch they reach at dawn of day. 

Upon the upper world ; and forced them through 

■That arch, the thick, cold floods, with such a roar, 

That the bold sprite receded, and would view 

The cave before he ventured to explore. 

Then, fearful lest his frighted guide might part 

And not be missed amid such strife and din, 
He strained him closer to his burning heai't, 

And, trusting to his strength, rushed fiercely in. 

On, on, for many a weary mile they fare ; 

Till thinner grew the floods, long dark and dense. 
From nearness to earth's core ; and now, a glare 

Of grateful light relieved their piercing sense ; 
As when, above, the sun his genial streams 

Of warmth and light darts mingling with the waves 
Whole fathoms down ; while, amorous of his beams, 

Each scaly, monsti'ous thhig leaps fr-om its slimy 
And now, Phraerion, with a tender cry, [caves. 

Far sweeter than the landbird's note, afar 
Heard through tlie azure arches of the sky, 

By the long baffled, storm worn mariner ; 
" Hold, Zophild ! rest thee now — our task is done, 

Tahathj^am's realms alone can give this light ! 
Oh ! though 't is not the life awakening sun, 

How sweet to see it break upon such fearful night!" 
Clear grew the wave, and thin ; a substance white 

The wide expanding cavern floors and flanks ; 
Could one have looked from high, how fair the sight ! 

Like these, the dolphin, on Bahaman banks. 
Cleaves the warm fluid, in his rainbow tints. 

While even his shadow on the sands below 
Is seen, as tiirough the wave he glides and glints, 

Where lies the poUshed shell, and branching corals 
No massive gate impedes ; the wave in vain [grow. 

Might strive against the air to break or fall ; 
And, at the portal of that strange domain, 

A clear, bright curtain seemed, or crystal wall. 
The spirits pass its bounds, but would not fax 

Tread its slant pavement, like unbidden guest ; 
The while, on either side, a bower of spar 

Gave invitation for a moment's rest. 
And, deep in either bower, a little throne 

Looked so fantastic, it were hard to know 
If busy Nature fashioned it alone. 

Or found some curious artist here below. 
Soon spoke Phra"rion : " Come, Tahathyam, come. 

Thou knowest me well — I saw thee once, to love, 
And bring a guest to view thy sparkling dome 

Who comes full fraught with tidings from above." 
Those gentle tones, angelicaUy clear. 

Passed from his lips, in mazy depths retreating, 
(,\s if that bower had been the cavern's ear,) 

Full many a stadia far ; and kept repeating. 
As tlu-ough the perforated rock they pass, 

Echo to echo guiding them ; their lone 
(As just from the sweet spirit's hp) at last 

Tahathyam heard : where on a glittering throne 
he solitary sat. 



76 



MARIA BROOKS. 



Sending through the rock an answering 
strain, to give the spirits welcome, the gnome 
prepares to meet tliem at his palace door : 

He sat upon a car (and the large pearl, 

Once cradled in it, glimmered now without). 
Bound midway on two serpents' backs, that curl 

In silent swiftness as he glides about. 
A shell, 'twas first in liquid amber wet, 

Then, ere the fragrant cement hai'dened round, 
All o'er with large and precious stones 'twas set 

By skilful Tsavaven, or made or found. 
The reins seemed pliant crystal, (but their strength 

Had matched his earthly mother's silken band). 
And, flecked with rubies, flowed in ample length, 

Like sparkles o'er Tahathyam's beauteous hand. 
The reptiles, in their feai-ful beauty, drew, 

As if from love, hke steeds of Araby ; 
Like blood of lady's lip their scarlet hue ; [to see. 

Their scales so bright and sleek, 't was pleasure but 
With open mouths, as proud to show the bit, [eye 

They raise their heads and arch their necks (vpith 
As bright as if with meteor fire 'twere lit) ; 

And dart their bai-bed tongues 'twixt fangs of ivory. 
These, when the quick advancing sprites they saw 

Furl their swift wings, and tread with angel grace 
The smooth, fair pavement, checked their speed in 

And glided far aside as if to give them space, [awe. 

The errand of the angels is made known 
to the sovereign of this interior and resplen- 
dent world, and upon conditions the precious 
elixir is promised ; but first Zophiel and Phra- 
erion are ushered through sparry portals to a 
banquet : 

High towered the palace, and its massive pile, 

Made dubious if of nature or of art. 
So wild and so uncouth ; yet, all the while. 

Shaped to strange grace in every varying part. 
And groves adorned it, green in hue, and bright, 

As icicles about a laurel tree ; 
And danced about their twigs a wondrous light; 

Whence came that light so far beneath the sea 1 
Zophiel looked up to know, and to his view 

The vault scarce seemed less vast than that of day ; 
No rocky roof was seen ; a tender blue 

Appeared, as of the sky, and clouds about it play : 
And, in the midst, an orb looked as 'twere meant 

To shame the sun, it mimicked him so well. 
But ah ! no quickening, grateful warmth it sent; 

Cold as the rock beneath, the paly radiance fell. 
Within, from thousand lamps, the lustre strays. 

Reflected back from gems about the wall ; 
And from twelve dolphin shapes a fountain plays, 

Just in the centre of a spacious hall ; 
But whether in the sunbeam formed to sport, 

These shapes once lived in suppleness and pride, 
And then, to decorate this wondrous court, 

Were stolen from the waves and petrified ; 
Or, moulded by some imitative gnome. 

And scaled all o'er with gems, they were but stone. 
Casting their showers and rainbows neath the dome, 

To man or angel's eye might not be known. 
No snowy fleece in these sad realms was fomid, 



Nor silken ball by maiden loved so well ; 
But ranged m lightest garniture around. 

In seemly folds, a shining tapestry fell. 
And fibres of asbestos, bleached in fire. 

And all with pearls and sparkling gems o'erflecked, 
Of that strange court composed the rich attire, 

And such the cold, fair form of sad Tahalhyam 
decked. 

Gifted with every pleasing endowment, in 
possession of an elixir of which a drop per- 
petuates life and youth, surrounded by friends 
of his own choice, who are all axious to please 
and amuse him, the gnome feels himself in- 
ferior in happiness to the lowest of mortals. 
His sphere is confined, his high powers use- 
less, for he is without the " last, best gift of 
God to man," and there is no object on which 
he can exercise his benevolence. The feast 
is described with the terse beauty which 
marks all the canto, and at its close — 
The banquet cups, of many a hue and shape, 

Bossed o'er with gems, were beautiful to view ; 
But, for the madness of the vaunted grape. 

Their only draught was a pure, limpid dew. 
The spirits while they sat in social guise, 

Pledgmg each goblet with an answering kiss, 
Marked many a gnome conceal his bursting sighs ; 

And thought death happier than a life like this. 
But they had music : at one ample side 

Of the vast area of that sparkling hall. 
Fringed round with gems, that all the rest outvied, 

In form of canopy, was seen to fall 
The stony tapestry, over what, at first, 

An altar to some deity appeared ; 
But it had cost full many a year to adjust 

The limpid crystal tubes that neath upreared 
Their diflferent lucid lengths ; and so complete 

Their wondrous 'rangement, that a tuneful gnome 
Drew from them sounds more vained, clear, and 
sweet. 

Than ever yet had rung in any earthly dome. 
Loud, shrilly, liquid, soft ; at that quick touch 

Such modulation wooed his angel ears. 
That Zophiel wondered, started from his couch, 

And thought upon the music of the spheres. 

But Zophiel lingers with ill dissembled 
impatience, and Tahathyam leads the way 
to where the elixir of life is to be surren- 
dered : 

Soon through the rock they vrind ; the draught di- 
vine 

Was hidden by a veil the king alone might lift. 
Cephroniel's son, with half averted face 

And faltering hand, that curtain drew , and showed, 
Of solid diamond formed, a lucid vase ; 

And wai'm within the pure elixir glowed ; 
Bright red, like flame and blood (could they so meet) 

Ascending, sparkling, dancing, whirlmg, ever 
In quick, perpetual movement ; and of heat 
So high, the rock was warm beneath their feet, 

(Yet heat in its intenseness hurtful never,) 



MARIA BROOKS. 



77 



Even to the entrance of the long arcade 

Which led to that deep shrine, in the rock's breast 
As far as if the half-angel were afraid 

To know the secret he himself possessed. 
Tahathyam filled a slip of spar, with dread, 

As if stood by and frowned some power divine ; 
Then ti-embling, as he turned to Zophicl, said, 

" But for one service shalt thou call it thine ; 
Bring me a wife ; as I have named the way 

(I will not risk destruction save for love !) — 
Fair-haired and beauteous, like my mother ; say — • 

Plight me this pact ; so shalt thou bear above. 
For thine own purpose, what has here been kept 

Since bloomed the second age, to angels dear. 
Bursting from earth's dark womb, the fierce wave 
swept 

Off every form that lived and loved, while here, 
Deep hidden here, I still lived on and wept." 

Great pains have evidently been taken to 
have everything throughout the work in 
keeping. Most of the names have been 
selected for their particular meaning. Ta- 
halhyam and his retinue appear to have been 
settled in their submarine dominion before 
the great deluge that changed the face of the 
earth, as is intimated in the lines last quoted ; 
and as the accounts of that judgment and of 
the visits and communications of angels con- 
nected with it are chiefly in Hebrew, they 
have names from that language. It would 
have been better perhaps not to have called 
the persons of the third canto gnomes, as at 
this word one is reminded of all the varieties 
of the Rosicrucian system, of which Pope has 
so well availed himself in the Rape of the 
Lock, which sprightly production has been 
said to be derived, though remotely, from 
Jewish legends of fallen angels. Tahathyam 
can be called gnome only on accoimt of the 
retreat to which his erring father has con- 
signed him. 

The spirits leave the cavern, and Zophiel 
exults a moment, as if restored to perfect 
happiness. But there is no way of bearing 
his prize to the earth except through the 
most dangerous depths of the sea. 

Zophicl, with toil severe. 
But bliss in view, through the thrice murky night. 

Sped swiftly on. A treasure now more dear 
He had to guard, than boldest hope had dared 

To breathe for years ; but rougher grew the way ; 
And soft Phraerion, shrinking back and scared [day. 

At every whirling depth, wept for his flowers and 
Shivered, and pained, and slmeldng, as the waves 

Wildly impel them 'gainst the jutting rocks ; 
Not all the care and strength of Zophiel saves 

His tender guide from half the wildering shocks 
He bore. The calm, which favored their descent, 

And bade them look upon their task as o'er. 



Was past ; and now the inmost earth seemed rent 

With such fierce storms as never raged before. 
Of a long mortal life had the whole pain 

Essenced in one consummate pang, been borne, 
Known, and sunived, it still v^ould be in vain 

To tiy to paint the pains felt liy these sprites forlorn. 
The precious' drop closed m its hollow spar. 

Between his lips Zophiel in triumi^h bore. 
Now, earth and sea seem shaken ! Dashed afar 

He feels it part; — 'tis dropped: the waters roar, 
He sees it in a sable vortex whii'ling. 

Formed by a cavern vast, that neath the sea 
Sucks the fierce torrent in. 

The furious storm has been raised by the 
power of his betrayer and persecutor, and in 
gloomy desperation Zophiel rises with the 
frail Phraerion to the upper air: 

Black clouds, in mass deform. 
Were frowning ; yet a moment's calm was there. 

As it had stopped to breathe a while the storm. 
Their white feet press the desert sod ; they shook 

From their bright locks the briny drops ; nor stayed 
Zophiel on ills, present or past, to look. 

But his flight toward Medea is stayed by a 

renewal of the tempest : 

Loud and more loud the blast ; in mingled gyre 

Flew leaves and stones, and with a deafening crash 
Fell the uprooted ti*ees ; heaven seemed on fire — 

Not, as 'tis wont, with intermitting flash, 
But, like an ocean all of liquid flame. 

The whole broad arch gave one continuous glare. 
While through the red light fi'om their prowling 
came 

The flighted beasts, and ran, but could not find a 

lair. 

At length comes a shock, as if the earth 

crashed against some other planet, and they 

are thrown amazed and prostrate upon the 

heath. Zophiel — 

in a mood 

Too fierce for fear, uprose ; yet ere for flight 
Served his torn vrings, a form before him stood 

In gloomy majesty. Like starless night, 
A sable mantle fell in cloudy fold 

From its stupendous breast ; and as it trod. 
The pale and lurid light at distance rolled 

Before its princely feet, receding on the sod. 

The interview between the bland spirit and 
the prime cause of his guilt is full of the en- 
ergy of passion, and the rhetoric of the con- 
versation has a masculine beauty of which 
Mrs. Brooks alone of all the poets of her sex 
was capable. 

Zophiel returns to Medea and the drama 
draws to a close, which is painted with con- 
summate art. Egla wanders alone at twi- 
light in the shadowy vistas of a grove, won- 
dering and sighing at the continued absence 
of the enamored angel, who approaches un- 



78 



MARIA BROOKS. 



seen while she sings a strain that he had 
taught her. 

His wings were folded o'er his eyes ; severe 

As was tlie pain he 'd borne from wave and wind, 
The dubious warning of that being drear, 

Who met liim in the lightning, to his mind 
Was torture worse ; a dark presentiment 

Game o'er his soul with paralyzing chill, 
As when Fate vaguely whispers her intent 

To poison mortal joy with sense of coming ill. 
He searched about the grove with all the care 

Of trembling jealousy, as if to trace 
By track or wounded flower some rival there ; 

And scarcely dared to look upon the face 
Of her he loved, lest it some tale might tell 

To make the only hope that soothed him vain : 
He hears her notes in numbers die and swell. 

But almost fears to listen to the strain 
Himself had taught her, lest some hated name 

Had been with that dear gentle ah enwreathed. 
While he was far ; she sighed — he nearer came — 

Oh, transport ! Zophiel was the name she breathed. 

He saw her — but 

Paused, ere he would advance, for very bliss. 
The joy of a whole mortal life he felt 

In that one moment. Now, too long unseen. 
He fiiin had shown his beauteous form, and knelt. 

But while he still delayed, a mortal rush'd between. 

This scene is in the sixth canto. In the 
iifth, which is occupied almost entirely hy 
mortals, and bears a closer relation than the 
others to the chief works in narrative and 
dramatic poetry, are related the adventures 
of Zameia, which, wilh the story of her death, 
following the last extract, would make a fine 
tragedy. Her misfortmies are simply told by 
an aged attendant who had fled with her in 
pursuit of Meles, whom she had seen and 
loved in Babylon. At the feast of Venus 
Mylitta, 

Full in the midst, and taller than the rest, 

Zameia stood distinct, and not a sigh 
Disturbed the jem that sparkled oifc her breast ; 

Her oval cheek was heightened to a dye 
That shamed the mellow vermeil of the wreath 

Which in her jetty locks became her well, 
And mingled fragrance with her sweeter breath, 

The while her haughty lips more beautifully swell 
With consciousness of every charm's excess; 

While with becoming scorn she turned her face 
From every eye that darted its caress. 

As if some god alone might hope for her embrace. 

Again she is discovered, sleeping, by the 
rocky margin of a river : 

PalUd and worn, but beautiful and young, [trace ; 
Though marked her charms by wildest passion's 
Her long round arms, over a fragment flung, 
From pillow all too rude protect a face 
Whose dark and high arched brows gave to the 
thought 



To deem what radiance once they towered above ; 
But all its proudly beauteous outline taught 
That anger there had shared the throne of love. 

It was Zameia that rushed between Zophiel 
and Egla, and that now with quivering lip, 
disordered hair, and eye gleaming with 
phrensy, seized her arm, reproached her with 
the murder of Meles, and attempted to kill 
her. But as her dagger touches the white 
robe of the maiden, her arm is arrested by 
some unseen power, and she falls dead at 
Egla's feet. Reproached by her own hand- 
maid and by the aged attendant of the prin- 
cess, Egla feels all the horrors of despair, 
and, beset with evil influences, she seeks to 
end her own life, but is prevented by the 
timely appearance of Raphael, in the char- 
acter of a traveller's guide, leading Helen, a 
young man of her own nation and kindred 
who has been living unknown at Babylon, 
protected by the same angel, and destined to 
be her husband ; and to the mere idea of 
whose existence, imparted to her in a mys- 
terious and vague manner hy Raphael, she 
has remained faithful from her childhood. 

Zophiel, who by the power of Lucifer has 
been detained struggling in the grove, is suf- 
fered once more to enter the presence of the 
object of his affection. He sees her support- 
ed in the arms of Helon, whom he makes one 
futile effort to destroy, and then is banished 
for ever. The emissaries of his immortal en- 
emy pursue the baffled seraph to his place 
of exile, and by their derision endeavor to 
augment his misery: 

And when they fled, he hid him hi a cave [there, 
Sti-ewn with the bones of some sad wretch who 

Apart from men, had sought a desert grave, 
And yielded to the demon of despair. 

There beauteous Zophiel, shrinking from the day. 
Envying the wretch that so his life had ended, 

Wailed liis eternity ; 

but, at last, is visited by Raphael, who gives 
him hopes of restoration to his original rank 
in heaven. 

The concluding canto is entitled The Bridal 
of Helon, and in the following lines it con- 
tains much of the author's philosophy of life : 

The bard has sung, God never formed a soul 

Without its own peculiar mate, to meet 
Its wandeiing half, when ripe to crown the whole 

Bright plan ofbliss,most heavenly, most complete! 
But thousand evil things there are that hate 

To look on happiness ; these hurt, impede, [fate. 
And, lean:ued with time, space, circumstance, and 

Keep kindred heart from heart, to pme, and pant, 
and bleed. 



MAKIA BROOKS. 



79 



And as the dove to far Palmyra flying, 

From where her native founts of Antioch beam, 
Weary, exhausted, longfing, panting, sighing, 

Lijhts sadly at the desert's bitter stream — ■ 
So many a soul, o'er life's drear desert faring, 

Love's pure, congenial spring unfound, unquaffed, 
Suffers, recoils — then thirsty and despairing 

Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest 
draught. 

On consulting Zophiel, it will readily be 
seen that the passages here extracted have 
not been chosen for their superior poetical 
merit. It has simply been attempted by quo- 
tations and a running commentary to convey 
a just impression of the scope and character 
of the work. There is not perhaps in the 
English language a poem containing a greater 
variety of thought, description, and incident, 
and though the author did not possess iu an 
eminent degree the constructivefaculty, there 
are few narratives that are conducted with 
more regard to unities, or with more sim- 
plicity and perspicuity. 

Though characterized by force and even 
freedom of expression, it does not contain an 
impure or irreligious sentiment. Every page 
is full of passion, but passion subdued and 
chastened by refinement and delicacy. Sev- 
eral of the characters are original and splen- 
did creations. Zophiel seems to us the finest 
fallen angel that has come from the hand of 
a poet. Milton's outcasts from heaven are 
uiterly depraved and abraded of their glory; 
but Zophiel has traces of his original virtue 
and beauty, and a lingering hope of restora- 
tion to the presence of the Divinity. De- 
ceived by the specious fallacies of an immor- 
tal like himself, and his superior in rank, he 
encounters the blackest perfidy in him for 
whom so much had been forfeited, and the 
blight of every prospect that had lured his 
fancy or ambition. Egla, though one of the 
most important characters in the poem, is 
much less interesting. She is represented as 
heroically consistent, except when given over 
for a moment to the malice of infernal emis- 
saries. In her immediate reception of Helon 
as a husband, she is constant to a long cher- 
ished idea, and fulfils the design of her guard- 
ian spirit, or it would excite some wonder 
that Zophiel was worsted in such competi- 
tion. It will be perceived upon a careful 
examination that the work is in admirable 
keeping, and that the entire conduct of its 
several persons bears a just relation to their 
characters and positions. 



Mrs. Brooks returned to the United States, 
and her son being now a student in the mil- 
itary academy, she took up her residence in 
the vicinity of West Point, where, with oc- 
casional intermissions in which she visited 
her plantation in Cuba or travelled in the 
United States, she remained until 1839. Her 
marked individuality, the variety, beauty, and 
occasional splendor of her conversation, made 
her house a favorite resort of the officers of 
the academy, and of the most accomplished 
persons who frequented that romantic neigh- 
borhood, by many of whom she will long be 
remembered with mingled affection and ad- 
miration. 

In 1S34 she caused to be published in Bos- 
ton an edition of Zophiel, for the benefit of 
the Polish exiles who were thronging to this 
country after their then recent struggle for 
freedom. There were at that time too few 
readers among us of sufficiently cultivated 
and independent taste to appreciate a work 
of art which time or accident had not com- 
mended to the popular applause, and Zophiel 
scarcely anywhere excited any interest or 
attracted any attention. At the end of a 
month but about twenty copies had been sold, 
and, in a moment of disappointment, Mrs. 
Brooks caused the remainder of the impres- 
sion to be withdrawn from the rnarket. The 
poem has therefore been little read in this 
country, and even the title of it would have 
remained unknown to the common reader of 
elegant literature but for occasional allusions 
to it by Southey and other foreign critics.* 

In the summer of 1843, while Mrs. Brooks 
was residing at Fort Columbus, in the bay of 
New York — a military post at which her 
son. Captain Horace Brooks, was stationed 
several years — she had printed for private 
circulation the remarkable little work to 
which allusion has already been made, enti- 
tled Idomen, or The Vale of the Yumuri. It 
is in the style of a romance, but contains lit- 
tle that is fictitious except the names of the 
characters. The account which Idomen gives 
of her own history is literally true, except iii 

* Maria del Occidente is styled in •■ The Doctor," &c., 
" the most impassioned and most imaginative of all poet- 
esses." And without talcing into account qutcdam ardcvtiora 
scattered here and there throughout her singular poem, 
there is undoubtedly ground for the first clause, and, with 
the move accurate sulistitution of » fanciful" for " imagina- 
tive," for tlie whole of the eulogy. It is altogether an ex- 
traordinary performance. — London Quarterlt/ Review. 

Which [Zophiel] he [Southey] says is by some Yankee 
womirn, as if there ever had boon a woman capable of 
anything so great ! — Charles Lamb. 



80 



MARIA BROOKS. 



relation to an excursion to Niagara, which 
occurred in a different period of the author's 
life. It is impossible to read these interest- 
ing " confessions" without feeling a profound 
interest in the character which they illus- 
trate ; a character of singular strength, dig- 
nity, and delicacy, subjected to the severest 
tests, and exposed to the most curious and 
easy analyses. " To see the inmost soul of 
one who bore all the impulse and torture of 
self-murder without perishing, is what can 
seldom be done : very few have memories 
strong enough to retain a distinct impression 
of past suffering, and few, though possessed 
of such memories, have the power of so de- 
scribing their sensations as to make them ap- 
parent to another." Idomen will possess an 
interest and value as a psychological study, 
independent of that which belongs to it as a 
record of the experience of so eminent a poet. 

Mrs. Brooks was anxious to have published 
an edition of all her writings, including Ido- 
men, before leaving New York, and she au- 
thorized me to offer gratuitously her copy- 
rights to an eminent publishing house for that 
purpose. In the existing condition of the 
copyright laws, which should have been en- 
titled acts for the discouragement of a native 
literature, she was not surprised that the of- 
fer was decjined, though indignant that the 
reason assigned should have been that they 
were "of too elevated a character to sell." 
Writing to me soon afterward she observed: 
"I do not think anything from my humble 
imagination can be 'too elevated,' or ele- 
vated enough, for the public as it really is 

in these North American states In the 

words of poor Spurzheim, (uttered to me a 
short time before his death, in Boston,) I sol- 
ace myself T)y saying, 'Stupidity ! stupidity! 
the knowledge of that alone has saved me 
from misanthropy.' " 

In December, 1843, Mrs. Brooks sailed the 
last time from her native country for the 
island of Cuba. There, on her coffee estate, 
Hermita, she renewed for a while her litera- 
ry labors. The small stone building, smooth- 
ly plastered, with a flight of steps leading to 
its entrance, in which she wrote some of the 
cantos of Zophiel, is described by a recent 
traveller* as surrounded by alleys of " palms, 
cocoas, and oranges, interspersed with the 
tamarind, the pomegranate, the mangoe, and 

* The author of " Notes on Cuba."— Boston, 1644. 



the rose-apple, with a back ground of coffee 
and plantains covering every portion of the 
soil with their luxuriant verdure. I have 
often passed it," he observes, "in the still 
night, when the moon was shining brightly, 
and the leaves of the cocoa and palm threw 
friirge-like shadows on thewallsandthefloor, 
and the elfin lamps of the cocuUos swept 
through the windows and door, casting their 
lurid, mysterious light on every object, while 
the air was laden with mingled perfume from 
the coffee and orange, and the tube-rose and 
night-blooming ceres, and have thought that 
no fitter birthplace could be found for the 
images she has created." 

Her habits of composition were peculiar. 
With an almost unconquerable aversion to 
the use of the pen, especially in her later 
years, it was her custom to finish her shorter 
pieces, and entire cantos of longer poems, be- 
fore committing a word of them to paper. 
She had long meditated, and had partly com- 
posed, an epic under the title of Beatriz, the 
Beloved of Columbus, and when transmit- 
ting tome the manuscript of The Departed, 
in August, 1844, she remarked : " When I 
have written out my Vistas del Infierno and 
one other short poem, I hope to begin the 
penning of the epic I have so often spoken 
to you of; but when orwhether it will ever 
be finished, Heaven alone can tell." I have 
not learned whether this poem was written, 
but when I heard her repeat passages of it, 
I thought it wovdd be a nobler work than 
Zophiel. 

But little will be said here of the minor po- 
ems of Mrs. Brooks. They evince the same 
power and passion — the imagination, fancy, 
command of poetical language, and intense 
feeling, which are so apparent in her chief 
work. Many of them were written under the 
pressure of extraordinary circumstances, and 
these breathe of the fresh and deep emotions 
by which they were occasioned. Others are 
in a more eminent degree works of art, com- 
posed for the mere love of giving form to the 
lights and shadows, and vague creations, of a 
mind teeming with beauty. One of her latest 
productions is the Ode to the Departed. She 
wrote to me on the seventeenth of August, 
1844, "I send you a poem which may possi- 
bly please you, as I remember your appro- 
val of a hymn of mine not dissimilar. On 
the seventeenth of last April it was con- 
ceived and partly executed in the midst of a 



MARIA BROOKS. 



dearth such as had not for many j'ears been 
known in the island of Cuba. A late attempt 
at insurrection had been followed by such 
scenes and events as could not fail to call 
forth thoughts and hopes of a future exist- 
ence, even if private sorrow had not before 
awakened them." This poem, one written 
about the same time under the title of Con 



Vistas del Infierno, another To the Departed, 
one on Revisiting Cuba, one to Painting, and 
an Invocation to Poetry, are all that have 
appeared in this stanza which was invented 
by Mrs. Brooks, and was admirably suited to 
the tone of her later compositions. 

Mrs. Brooks died at Matanzas, in Cuba, 
on the eleventh of November, 1845. 



EXTRACTS FROM ZOPHIEL. 

MOnUING. 

How beauteous art thou, O thou morning sun ! — 

The old man, feebly tottering forth, admires 
As much thy beauty, now life's dream is done, 

As when lie moved exulting in his fires. 
The infant strains his Uttle arms to catch 

The rays that glance about his silken hair ; 
And Luxury hangs her amber lamps, to match [fair. 

Thy face, when turned away from bower and palace 
Sweet to the Up the draught, the blushing fruit ; 

Music and perfumes mingle with the soul ; 
How thrills the kiss, when feeling's voice is mute ! 

And light and beauty's tints enhance the whole. 
Yet each keen sense were dulness but for thee : 

Thy ray to joy, love, virtue, genius, warms ; 
Thou never weariest ; no inconstancy 

But comes to pay new homage to thy charms. 
How many lips have sung thy praise, how long ! 

Yet, when his slumbering harp he feels thee woo, 
The pleasured baid pours forth another song, 

And finds in thee, like love, a theme for ever new. 
Thy dark eyed daughters come in beauty forth. 

In thy near realms ; and, like their snowwreaths fair. 
The bright hahed youths and maidens of the north 

Smile in thy colors when thou art not there. 
'T is there thou bidst a deeper ardor glow. 

And higher, purer reveries completest; 
As drops that farthest fiom the ocean flow. 

Refining all the way, from springs the sweetest. 
Haply, sometimes, spent with the sleepless night. 

Some wretch, impassioned, from sweet morning's 
breath, 
Turns his hot brow, and sickens at thy light ; 

But Nature, ever kind, soon heals or gives him 
death. 

VIRTUE. 

Virtue ! how many as a lowly thing, 

Bom of weak folly, scorn thee ! but thy name 
Alone they know ; upon thy soaring wing 

They 'd fear to mount ; nor could thy sacred flame 
Burn in their baser hearts : the biting thorn. 

The flmty crag, flowers hiding, strew thy field ; 
Yet blest is he whose daring bides the scorn 

Of the frail, easy herd, and buckles on thy shield. 
Who says thy ways are bliss, trolls but a lay 

To lure the infant : if thy paths, to view. 
Were always pleasant. Crime's worst sons would lay 

Their daggers at thy feet, and, from mere sloth, 
pursue. 
6 



CONFIDING LOVE. 

What bliss for her who lives her little day, 

In blest obedience, like to those divuie. 
Who to her loved, her earthly lord, can say, 

" God is thy law, most just, and thou art mini." 
To every blast she bends in beauty meek : 

Let the storm beat — ^his arms her shelter kind — 
And feels no need to blanch her rosy cheek 

With thoughts befitting his superior mind. 
Who only sorrows when she sees him pained, 

Then knows to pluck away Pain's keenest dart ; 
Or bid Love catch it ere its goal be gained, 

And steal its venom ere it reach his heart. 
'Tis the soul's food: the fervid must adore. — 

For this the heathen, vmsutficed with thought, 
Moulds him an idol of the glittering ore, 

And shrines his smilmg goddess, marble wrought 
What bhss for her, even in tliis world of wo. 

Oh, Sire ! who makest yon orbstrewn arch thy 
That sees thee in thy noblest work below [throne ; 

Shine undefaced, adored, and all her own ! 
This I had hoped ; but hope, too dear, too great. 

Go to thy grave ! — I feel thee blasted, now. 
Give me Fate's sovereign, well to bear the fate 

Thy pleasure sends : this, my sole prayer, allow ! 



LANGUAGE OF GEMS. 

Look ! here's a ruby ; drinking solar rays, 

I saw it redden on a mountain tip ; 
Now on thy snowy bosom let it blaze : 

'T win blush still deeper to behold thy lip ! 
Here 's for thy hair a garland : every flower 

That spreads its blossoms, watered by the tear 
Of the sad slave in Babylonian bower, 

Might see its frail bright hues perpetuate here. 
For morn's hght bell, this changeful amethyst ; 

A sapphire for the violet's tender blue ; 
Large opals, for the queenrose zephyr kist ; 

And here are emeralds of eveiy hue, 
For folded bud and leaflet, dropped with dew. 
And here's a diamond, culled from Indian mine. 

To gift a haughty queen : it might not be ; 
I knew a worthier brow, sister divine. 

And brought the gem ; for well I deem for thee 
The "arch chymic sun" in earth's dark bosom 
wrought 

To prison thus a ray, that when dull Night 
Frowns o'er her realms, and Nature's all seems 
naught, 

She whom he grieves to leave may still behold his 
light. 



62 



MARIA BROOKS. 



AMBITIOjr. 



Wo to thee, wild Ambition ! I employ 

Despair's low notes thy dread effects to tell ; 
Born in high heaven, her peace thou couldst destroy ; 

And, but for thee, there had not been a hell. 
Through the celestial domes thy clarion pealed ; 

Angels, entranced, beneath thy banners ranged, 
And straight were fiends ; hurled from the shrinking 

They waked in agony to wail the change. [field, 
Darting through ail her veins the subtle fire. 

The world's fair mistress first inhaled thy breath ; 
To lot of higher beings learned to aspire ; 

Dared to attempt, and doomed the world to death. 
1'he thousand wild desires, that still torment 

The fiercely struggUng soul where peace once dwelt, 
But perished ; feverish hope ; drear discontent, 

Impoisoning all possessed — ^oh ! I have felt 
As spirits feel — ^yet not for man we moan : 

Scarce o'er the silly bird in state were he. 
That builds his nest, loves, sings the mom's return, 

And sleeps at eveiiing, save by aid of thee. 
Fame ne'er had roused, nor Song her records kept ; 

The gem, the ore, the marble breathing life, 
The pencil's colors, all in earth had slept, 

Now see them mark with death his victim's strife. 
Man found thee. Death : but Death and dull Decay, 

Baffling, by aid of thee, his mastery proves ; 
By mighty works he swells his narrow day. 

And reigns, for ages, on the world he loves. 
Yet what the price 1 With stings that never cease 

Thou goadst him on ; and when too keen the smart. 
His highest dole he 'd barter but for peace — 

Food thou wilt have, or feast upon his heart 



MELES AWD EGLA CONTRASTED. 

She meekly stood. He fastened round her arms 

Rings of refulgent ore ; low and apart 
Murmuring, "So, beauteous captive, shall thy charms 

For ever thrall and clasp thy captive's heart." 
The air's light touch seemed softer as she moved, 

In languid resignation ; his quick eye 
Spoke in black glances how she was approved, 

Who shrank reluctant from its ardency. 
'T was sweet to look upon the goodly pair 

In their contrasted lovehness : her height 
Might almost vie with his, but heavenly fair. 

Of soft proportion she, and sunny hair ; [night. 
He cast in manliest mould, with ringlets miurk as 
And oft her drooping and resigned blue eye 

She 'd wistful raise to read his radiant face ; 
But then, why shrunk her heart? — a secret sigh 

Told her it most required what there it could not 
trace. 



EGLA RECLIIflirG. 

Lone in the still retreat. 

Wounding the flowers to sweetness more intense, 
She sank. Thus kindly Nature lets our wo 

Swell till it bursts forth from the o'erfraught breast ; 
Then draws an opiate from the bitter flow. 

And lays her sorrowing child soft in the lap of Rest. 
Now all the mortal maid hes indolent — 

Save one sweet cheek, which the cool velvet turf 
Had touched too rude, though all with blooms be- 
sprent, 



One soft arm pillowed. Whiter than the surf 
That foams against the sea rock looked her neck 

By the dark, glossy, odorous shrubs relieved, 
That close inclining o'er her, seemed to reck 

What 'twas they canopied; and quickly heaved, 
Beneath her robe's white folds and azure zone, 

Her heart yet incomposed ; a fillet through 
Peeped softly azure, while with tender moan, 

As if of bliss. Zephyr her ringlets blew 
Sportive : about her neck their gold he tvrined ; 

Kissed the soft violet on her temples warm, 
And eyebrow just so dark might well define 

Its flexile arch — throne of expression's charm. 
As the vexed Caspian, though its rage be past, 

And the blue smiling heavens swell o'er in peace, 
Shook to the centre by the recent blast, [cease ; 

Heaves on tumultuous still, and hath not power to 
So still each little pulse was seen to throb, 

Though passion and its pain were lulled to rest; 
And ever and anon a piteous sob 

Shook the pure arch expansive o'er her breast 



A3f ARCHER. 

Rememberest thou 

When to the altar, by thy father reared. 
As we went forth with sacrifice and vow, 

A victim dove escaped, and there appeared 
A stranger ? Quickly from his shrilly string 

He let an an-ow glance ; and to a tree 
Nailed fast the little truant, by the wing, 

And brought it, scarcely bleeding, back to thee. 
His voice, his mien, the lustre of his eye. 

And pretty deed he had done, were theme of praise; 
Though blent with fear that stranger should espy 

Thy lonely haunts. When, in the sunny rays 
He turned and went, with black locks clustering 

Around his pillar neck — " 'T is pity he," [bright 
Thou saidst, " in all the comeliness and might 

Of perfect man, 't is pity he should be 
But an idolater ! How nobly sweet 

He tempers pride with courtesy ! A flower 
Drops honey when he speaks. His sandaled feet 

Are light as antelope's. He stands, a tower." 



EGLA S COURAGE. 

Despite of all, the starting tear, 

The melting tone, the blood suffiisive, proved 
The soul that in them spoke could spurn at fear 

Of death or danger ; and had those she loved 
Required it at their need, she could have stood, 

Unmoved, as some fair sculptured statue, while 
The dome that guards it, earth's convulsions rude 

Are shivering, meeting ruin with a smile. 



SIGHING rOR THE UN ATTAIN ABLE. 

'T is as a vine of Galilee should say, 
" Culturer, I reck not tliy support, I sigh 

For a young palm tree of Euphrates ; nay. 
Or let me him entwine, or in my blossom die." 



LOVE S SURGERY. 

He who would gain 
A fond, full heart — in love's soft surgery skilled. 
Should seek it when 'tis sore ; allay its pain 
With balm by pity prest : 'tis all his own so healed. 



MARIA BROOKS. 



83 



ODE ON REVISITING CUBA. 

IszE of eternal spring, thou 'rt desolate 
To me ; thy limpiJ seas, thy fragrant shores, 
Whither I Ve sighed to come 
And make a tranquil home. 
Have lost to me their charm ; my heart deplores, 
Vainly, of two it loved the melancholy doom. 

Well may I weep you, gentle souls, that, while 
On earth, responded to the love of mine, 
Through eyes of heavenly blue. 
More deeply, fondly true. 
Haply, than He, who lent his breath divine. 
May give again on eai'th to cheer me vrith their 
smile. 

My George, if thou hadst faults, they only were 
That thou wert gifted ill for this poor sphere 
Where first he faints who sijares 
Earth's selfish, sordid cares ; 
And what might faults to baser eyes appear. 
When ta'en where angels dwell, must be bright vir- 
tues there. 

Men toil, betray, nay, even kill, for gold ; 
But had some wretch pressed by misfortune sore 
Asked thy last piece of thee 
To ease his misery. 
When thou couldst only look to Heaven for more, 
That last piece had been given, and thine own safety 
sold. 

Oft when the noisome streams of pestilence 
Poisoned the air around thee, hast thou stayed 
By friends, while thirsty Death 
Lurked near, to quaff their breath ; 
And soothed and saved while others were afraid, 
And hardier hearts and hands thaii thine rushed 
wildly thence. 

Oh, could I find thee in some palm leaf cot, 
Still for this earth, with thy sweet brothers too, 
Though scarce our worldly hoard 
Sufficed a frugal board, 
Hope should beguile no more : I 'd live for you. 
Disclaim all other love — and sing, and bless my lot 

All other love 1 — what love for me was e'er. 
My Edgar, oh, my first bom ! like to thine 1 
Too faithfal for thy state 
Thou wert — too passionate — 
Too vehement — devoted — Powers benign ! 
That thy last pain should pass, and I not by to 
share ! 

Love speaks, 't is said, but what entones his voice 1 
Avarice, ambition, vanity, or oft 
Sensations such as wake 
Blind mole and mottled snake ; 
Fierce with the cruel, gentle with the soil — ■ 
Promiscuous in their aim, — indifferent in their 
choice. 

Haply more often but the common wants. 
That man with every mortal creature feels, 
And s.atisfiiction finds 
In mantlp, as it binds 
His neck, when cold ; or in those daily meals 
Sufficing all the life that coldness leads or vaunts. 



If one be lost, another serves as well ; 
Another mantle, or another fair, 
As well may be his own 
If one dies his — ^alone 
He sighs not long ; — enter liis home, and there. 
When past one Uttle year, another fair will dwell. 

Or see yon smiling Creole — ^her black hair 
Braided and glittering, with one lover's gold: 
Ere the quick flower has grown 
O'er where he sleeps alone. 
Already to some other lover sold. 
Or given, what both call love, and he 's content to 
share. 

Better for those who love this world, to be 
Even as such : a pure, pure flame, intense, 
Edgar, as thine, consumes 
The cheek its light illumes ; [hence. 

And he whose heart enshrines such flame, must 
And join with it, betimes, its own eternity. 

For masculine or feminine gave naught 
Of fuel to the hallowed fire, that burned 
And urged thee on, of life. 
Reckless, amid the strife 
For worldly wealth, that better had been spurned : 
Thy happiness and love, alas ! were all I sought. 

How could I kneel and kiss the hand of Fate, 
Were it but mine to decorate some hall — 
Here, where the soil I tread 
Colors my feet with red — 
Far down these isles, to hear your voices call. 
Then haste to hear and tell what happ'd wliile sep- 
arate ! 
Beautiful isles I beneath the sunset skies 
Tall silver shafted palm trees rise between 
Full orange trees that shade 
The living colonnade ; 
Alas ! how sad, how sickening is the scene 
That were ye at my side would be a paradise ! 

E'en one of those cool caves which, light and dry, 
In many a leafy hillside, near this spot, 
Seem as by Nature made 
For shelter and for shade 
To such as bear a homeless wanderer's lot, 
Were home enough for me, could those I mourn 
be nigh. 

Palace or cave (where neath the blossom and lime 
Winter lies hid with wi'caths) 'alike may be, 
If love and taste unite, 
A dwelling for delight. 
And kings might leave their silken courts, to see 
O'er such wild, garnished grot, the grandiflora cUmb. 

Thus, thus, doth quick eyed Fancy fondly wait 
The pauses of my deep remorse between ; 
Before my anxious eyes 
'Tis thus her pictures rise ; 
They show what is not, yet what might have been ; 
Angels, why came I not 1 — why have I come too 

late? 
The cooling beverage — strengthening draught — as 
craved 
The needs of both, could but these hands have 
given ; 



84 



MARIA BROOKS. 



Could I have watched the glow — 
The pulse, too quick, or slow — 
My eai'nest, fond, reiterate prayers to HeaTen, 
Some angel might have come, besought, returned, 
and saved. 

To stay was imbecility — nay, more — [see, 

'T was crime — how yearned my panting heart to 
When, by mere words delayed, 
'Gainst the strong wish, I stayed, 
(Trifling with that which inly spoke to me,) 
And longed, and hoped, and feared, till all I feared 
was o'er ! 

Mild, pitying George, when maple leaves were red 
O'er Ladaiianna* in his much loved north. 
Breathed here his last farewell — 
And when the tears that fell 
From April, called Mohecan'st violets forth, 
Edgar, as following liis, thy friendly spirit fled. 

Now, side by side, neath cross and tablet white 
Is laid, sweet brothers, all of you that's left; 
Yet, all the tropic dew 
Can damp, would seem not you : 
Your finer particles from earth are reft. 
Haply, (and so I '11 hope,) for loveUer forms of light. 

Myriads of beings, (for the whole that 's known 
In all this world's combined philosophy,) 
The eternal will obeyed, 
To finish what was made, [and sea 

When, warm with new breathed life, new earth 
Returned the smile of Him who blessed them from 
his throne. 

Such beings, haply, hovering round us now. 
When flesh or flowers in beauty fade or fall, 
Gather each precious tint 
Once seeir to glow and glint, 
With fond economy to gladden all : 
Heaven's hands, howe'er profuse, no atom's loss 
allow. 

Yet, brothers, sphits, loiter If ye may 
A little while, and look on all I do — 
Oh ! loiter for my sake, 
Ere other tasks ye take. 
Toward all I should do influence my view, 
Then haste, to hear the spheres chime with heaven's 
favorite lay. 

Go, hand in hand, to regions new and fair. 
In shapes and colors for the scene arrayed — 
With looks as bland and dear 
As charms, by glimpses, here. 
Receive divuie commissions ; follow — aid 
Those legions formed in heaven for many a guardian 
care. 

By every sigh, and throb, and pauiful throe, 
Remembered but to heighten the delight 
That crowns the advancing state 
Of souls emancipate — 
Oh ! as I tliink of you, at lonely night, 
Say to my heart, ye 're blest, and I can bear my wo. 

Island of Cuba— Cafetel Hermita, May 7, 1840. 



* Lndauaima. the aboriginal name of the SL Lawrence, 
■f Mohecan, the aboriginal naiue of the Hudson, 



ODE TO THE DEPARTED. 

" Con f-tscas del Cklo." 

The dearth is sore : the orange leaf is curled, 
There 's dust upon the marble o'er thy tomb. 
My Edgar, fair and dear ; 
Though the fifth sorrowing year 
Hath past, since first I knew thine early doom, 
I see thee still, though death thy being hence hath 
hurled. 

I could not bear my lot, now thou art gone — 
With heart o'ersoftened by the many tears 
Remorse and grief have drawn — 
Save that a gleam, a dawn, 
(Haply, of that which lights thee now,) appears, 
To unveil a few fair scenes of life's next coming 
mom. 

What — where is heaven 1 (earth's sweetest lips ex- 
In all the holiest seers have writ or said, [claim ;) 
Blurred are the pictures given : 
We know not what is heaven. 
Save by those views, mysteriously spread. 
When the soul looks afar by light of her own flame. 

Yet all our spirits, while on earth so faint. 
By gUmpses dim, discern, conceive, or know, 
■The Eternal Power can mould 
Real as fruits or gold — 
Bid the celestial, roseate matter glow, [paint. 
And forms more perfect smile than artists carve or 

To realize every creed, conceived 
In mortal brain, by love and beauty charmed, 
Even like the ivory maid 
Who, as Pygmalion prayed. 
Oped her white arms, to life and feeling warmed. 
Would lightly task the power of life's great Chief 
beUeved. 

If Grecian Phidias, in stone like this, 
Thy tomb, could do so much, what can not he 
Who from the cold, coarse clod, 
By reckless laborer trod. 
Can call such tints as meeting seraphs see. 
And give them breath and warmth like true love's 
soulfelt kiss 1 

Wild fears of dark annihilation, go ! 
Be warm, ye veins, now blackenmg with despair ! 
Years o'er thee have revolved, 
My firstborn — thou'rt dissolved — 
All — every tint — save a few ringlets fair — 
Still, if thou didst not live, how could I love thee so 1 

Quick as the warmth which darts from breast to 
When lovers, from afar, each other see, [breast. 
Haply, thy spirit went. 
Where mine would fain be sent, 
To take a heavenly form, designed to be 
Meet dwelling for the soul thine azure eye exprest. 

Thy deep blue eye ! say, can heaven's bliss exceed 
The joy of some brief moments tasted here 1 
Ah ! could I taste again — 
Is there a mode of pain 
Which, for such guerdon, could be deemed severe 1 
Be ours the forms of heaven, and let me bend and 
bleed! 



MARIA BROOKS. 



85 



To be in place, even lUce some spots on earth, 
In those sweet moments when no ill comes near ; 
\\Tiere perfumes round us wreathe, 
And the pure air we breathe 
Nerves and exhilarates ; while all we hear 
So tells content and love, we sigh and bless our birtli. 

To clasp thee, Edgar, in a fragrant shape 
Of fair perfection, after death's sad hour, 
Known as the same I 've prest. 
Erst, to this aching breast — 
The same — but finished by a kind, bland Power, 
Which only stopped thy heart to let thy soul es- 
cape — 

Oh ! every pain that vexed thy mortal life. 
Nay, even the lives of all who round thee lie : 
Be this one bliss my share. 
The whole condensed I'll bear — 
Bless the benign creative hand — and sigh. 
And kneel, to ask again the expiatory strife ! — ■ 

Strife, for the hope of making others blest, 
Who trespassed only that they were not brave 
Enough to bear or take 
Pains, even for pity's sake ; 
Strife, for the hope to wake, incite, and save. 
Even those who, dull with crime, know not fair 
honor's zest. 

If, in the pauses of my agony, 
(Be it or flame, stab, scourge, or pestilence,) 
If, fresh and blest, as dear, 
Thou 'It come in beauty, near — 
Speak, and with looks of love charm my keen sense, 
I '11 deem it heaven enough even thus to feel and 
see ! — 

To feel my hand wrenched, as with mortal rack ; 
Then see it healed, and ta'en, and kindly prest ; 
And fair as blossoms white 
Of cerea in the night ; 
While tears, that fall upon thy spotless breast. 
Are sweet as drops from flowers touched in thy 
heavenly track ! 

In form to bear nor stain nor scar designed — 
Yes ! let me kneel to agonize again : 
Ask every torment o'er 
More poignant than before ; 
Of a whole world the price of a whole pain. 
Were small for such blest gifts of matter and of mind ! 

Comes a cold doubt — that still thou art alive, 
Edgar, my heart tells while these numbers thrill, 
Yet of a bliss so dear. 
And as death's portal's near, 
I feel me too unworthy : dreary Time 
I fear must bear his part ere Hope her plight fulfil ! 

Time, time was meet (so many a sacred scroll 
Has told and tells) ere light was bid to smile ; 
Ere yet the spheres, revealed. 
Gave music, as they wheeled ; 
Warm, rife, eternal love — a time — a while- 
Brooded and charmed, and ranged till chaos gloomed 
no more. 

As time was needfiil ere a world could bloom 
With forms of flowers and flesh, haply must wait 



Some spirits ; and lingering still, 
Of deeds both good and ill 
Mark the elfcct in iutemiediate state, [tomb. 

And think, and pause, and weep, even over their own 

Be it so : if tliin as fragrance, light, or heat. 
Thine essence, floating oji the ambient air, 
Can, with fi-eed intellect. 
View every deed's eflect, 
Read, even my heart, in all its pantings bare : 
When denser pulses cease, how sweet, even thus, 
to meet ! 
To roam those deep green aisles, crowned with tall 
And weep for all who tire of toil and ill, [palms, 
While moons of winter bring 
Their blossoms fair as spring ; 
To move unseen by all we 've left, and will 
Such influence to their souls as half their pain be- 
calms ; — 

On deep Mohecan's mounts to view the spot 
Where, as these arms were oped to clasp thee, came 
The tidings, dread and cold, 
I never more might hold 
Thy pulsing form, nor meet the gentle flame 
Of thy fair eyes, till mine for those of earth were not ; 

On precipice where the gray citadel 
Hangs over Ladaiianna's billows clear, 
How sweet to pause and view, 
As erst, the far canoe ; 
To glide by friends, who know not we are near. 
And hear them of ourselves in tender memory tell ; 

Or where Niagara with maddening roar 
Shakes the worn clilf, haply to flit, and ken 
Some angel, as he sighs 
With pleasure at the dyes 
Of the wild depth, while to the eyes of men 
Invisible we speak by signs unknown before ; 

Or, far from this wild western world, where dwelt 
That brow whose laurels bore a leaf for mine. 
When, strong in sympathy, 
Thy sprite shall roam with me, 
Edgar, mid Derwent's flowers, one soul benign 
May to thy soul impart the joy I there have felt ! 

What though " imprisoned in the viewless winds," 
Mid storms and rocks, like earthly ship, were 
Unsevered while we 're blent, [dashed : 

We'll bear in sweet content 
The shock of falling bolt or forest crashed. 
While thoughts of hope and love nerve well our 
mystic minds. 
Wafted or wandering thus, souls may be found 
Or ripe for forms of heaven, or for that state 
Of which, when angels think. 
Or saints, they weep and shrink ; 
And oft, to draw, or save from such dread fate. 
Are fain their beauteous heads to dash 'gainst blood- 
stained ground. 
Freed from their earthly gyves, if spirits laugh 
And shriek with horrid joy, when victims bleed 
Or suflfer, as we view 
Mortals in vileness do. 
The Eternal and his court may keep their meed 
Of joy : far other cups fell thirsty Guilt must quaiT! 



86 



MARIA BROOKS. 



Oh, E Jgar ! spirit, or on earth or air, 
Seen, or impalpable to artist's sketch, 
In essence, or in form. 
In bliss, pain, calm, or storm. 
Let us, wherever met a suffering wretch, 
Task every power to shield and save him from de- 
spair ! 
Natm-e hath secrets mortals ne'er suspect : 
At some we glance, while some are sealed in night ; 
7'he optician, by his skill, 
Even now can show, at will. 
Long absent pheers, in shapes of moving Ught : 
If man so much can do, what can not Heaven ef- 
fect ! 
Shade, image, manes, all the ancient priest 
Told to his votarists in fraud or zeal, 
May be, and might have been, 
By means and arts we ween 
No more of, in this age : for wo or weal 
Of man, full much foreknown to this late race hath 
ceased. 
That souls may take ambrosial forms in heaven, 
A dawning science half assures the hope : 
These forms may sleep and smile 
Midst heaven's fresh roses, while 
Their spirits, free, roam o'er this world's whole scope 
For pleasure and for good, Heaven's full permission 
given ! 
I have not sung of meeting those we've loved. 
Or known, and hstening to their accents meek, 
While, pitying all they 've pained 
On earth, while passion reigned. 
To wreak redress upon themselves they seek. 
And bless, for each stern deed, the pain they now 
have proved. 

I have not sung of the first, fairest court. 
Of all those mansions ; of the heavenly home, 
Of which the best hath told 
Who e'er trod earthly mould ; 
To courts of earthly kings the fairest come. 
Haply, to show faint types of this supreme resort ! 

Haply, the Sire of sires may take a form 
And give an audience to each set unfurled 
With bands of sympathy, 
Wreathen in mystery. 
Round those" who've known each other in this 
world. 
Perfecting all the rest, and breathing beauty warm. 

Essence, Ught, heat, form, throbbing arteries — 
To deem each possible, enough I see ! 
Edgar, thou knowest I wait : 
Guard my expectant state — 
Console me, as I bend in prayers for thee — 
Aid me, even as thou mayst, both Heaven and thee 
to please ! 

Tliis song to thee alone ! though he who shares 
Thy bed of stone, shared well my love with thee ; 
Yet, in his noble heart 
Anot'ner bore a part. 
Whilst thou hadst never other love than me : 
Sprites, brothers, manes, shades, present my tears 
and prayers ! 

ralricio, istajid of Cuba, July 24, ISH. 



HYMN. 

SiKE, Maker, Spirit, who alone cans know 

My soul and all the deep remorse that's there — 
I ask no mitigation of my wo ; 

Yet pity me, and give me strength to bear ! 
Remorse 1 — ah ! not for ill designedly done : 

To look on pain, to me is pain severe ; 
Yet, yet, dear forms which Death from me hath won. 

Had Love been Wisdom, haply ye were here ! 
Much have I suffered ; yet this form, unscathed, 

Declares thy kind protection, by its thrift : 
With secret dews the wounded plant is bathed ; 

My ills are my desert, my good thy gift. 
Three years are flown since my sore heart bereft 

Hath mourned for two, ta'en by the powers on liigh, 
Nor tint nor atom that is fair is left 

Beneath the marble where their relics lie. 
Yet no oblivious veil is o'er them cast : 

Blent with my blood, the sympathetic glow 
Bums brighter now their mortal lives are past, 

Than when, on earth, I felt their joy and wo. 
Oh ! may their spirits, disembodied, come. 

And strong though secret influence dispense — 
Pitying the sorrows of an earthly doom. 

And smoothing pain with sweet beneficence. 
Oh ! cover them with forms so made to meet 

The models of their souls, that, when they see, 
They cast themselves in beauty at thy feet, 

In all the heaven of grateful ecstasy. 
Methinks I see them, side by side, in love, 

Like brothers of the zodiac, all aromrd 
Diffusing light and fragrance, as they move 

Harmonious as the spheric music's sound. 
And may these forms in warm and rosy sleep, 

(In some fair dwelling for such forms assigned,) 
Lie, while o'er air, earth, sea, their spirits sweep. 

Quick as the changeful glance of thought andmind. 
This fond ideal which my grief relieves. 

Father, beneath thy throne may live, may be : 
For more than all my feeble sense conceives, 

Thy hand can give in blest reahty. 
Sire, Maker, Spirit ! source of all that 's fair ! 

Howe'er my poor words be unworthy thee, 
Oh ! be not weary of the imperfect prayer 

Breathed from the fervor of a wretch like me ! 



THE MOON OF FLOWERS. 

Oh, moon of flowers ! sweet moon of flowers !* 
Why dost thou mind me of the hours 
Which flew so softly on that night 
When last I saw and felt thy light 1 
Oh, moon of flowers ! thou moon of flowers ! 
Would thou couldst give me back those hours 
Since which a dull, cold year has fled. 
Or show me those with whom they sped ! 
Oh, moon of flowers! oh, moon of flowers! 
In scenes afar were passed those hours, 
Which still with fond regret I see. 
And wish my heart could change like thee ! 



* Tlie savages of the nortlieni part of America some- 
times count by moons. May they call the moon of flowers. 



MARIA BROOKS. 



87 



TO THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE. 

The first time I beheld thee, beauteous stream, 
Howpure,howsmooth,howbroadthybosomheav'd! 

What feelings rushed upon my heart ! — ^a gleam 
As of another life my kindling soul received. 

Fair was the day, and o'er the crowded deck 
Joy shone in many a smile ; light clouds, in hue 

As silvery as the new fledged cygnet's neck, 
Cast, as they moved, faint shadows on the blue. 

Soft, deep, and distant, of the mountain chain, 
Wreathing and blending, tint with tint, and traced 

So gently on the smiling sky. In vain 
Time, scene, has changed ; 't will never be effaced. 

Now o'er thy tranquil breast the moonbeams quiver : 
How calm tlie air, how still the hom' — how bright ! 

Would thou wert doom'd to be my grave, sweet river ! 
How blends my soul with thy pure breath to-night ! 

The dearest hours that soul has ever known 
Have been upon thy brink : would it could wait, 

And, parted, watch thee still ! — to stay and moan 
Wiih thee, were better than my promised fate. 

Ladaiianna ! monarch of the north ! 

Father of streams unsung, be sung by me ! 
Receive a lay that flows resistless forth ! 

Oh, quench the fervor that consumes, in thee ! 

I 've seen more beauty on thy banks, more bliss, 

Than I had deemed were ever seen below ; 
Dew falls not on a happier land than this ; 

Fruits spring from desert wilds, and love sits thron'd 
on snow ; 
Snows that drive warmth to shelter in the heart ; 

Snows that conceal, beneath their moonUt heaps, 
Plenty's rich embryo ; fruits and flowers that start 

To meet their full grown Spring, as strong to earth 
he leaps. 
How many grades of life thou view'st ! thy wave 

Bears the dark daughter of the woods, as Ught 
She springs to her canoe, and wildly gi'ave 

Views the Great Spirit mid the fires of night. 

A hardy race, sprung fiom the Gaul, and gay, 
Frame their wild songs and sing them to the oar ; 

And think to chase the forest fiends away. 
Where yet no mass bell tinkles from the shore. 

The pensive nun throws back the veil that hides 
Her calm, chaste eyes ; straining them long, to mark 

When the mist thickens, if perchance there bides 
The peril, wildering on, some little bark: 

And trims her lamp and hangs it in her tower ; 

Not as the priestess did of old ; (she 's driven 
To do that deed by no fierce passion's power,) 

But kindly, calmly, for the love of Heaven. 

Who had been lost, what heart from breaking saved, 
She knows not, thinks not ; guided by her star. 

Some being leaps to shore : 'twas all she craved ; 
She makes the holy sign, and blesses him firom far. 

The plaided soldier, in his mountain pride 
Exulting, as he tr-eads with statelier pace. 

Views his white limbs refiected in thy tide. 
While wave the sable plumes that shade his manly 
face. 



The song of Ossian mingles with thy gale, 
The harp of Carolan's remembered here; 

The bright haired son of Erin tells his tale. 
Dreams of his misty isle, and drops for her a tear. 

Thou'st seen the trophies of that deathless day, 
Whosename bright glance from ev'ry Briton brings. 

When half the world was marshalled in array, 
And fell the great, self nurtured " king of kings." 

Youthful Columbia, ply thy useful arts ; 

Rear the strong nursling that thy mother bore. 
Called Liberty. Thy boundless fields, thy marts. 

Enough for thee : tempt these brown rocks no more ; 

Or leave them to that few, who, blind to gold. 
And scorning pleasure, brave with higher zest 

A doubtful path ; mid pain, want, censure, bold 
To pant one fevered hour on Genius' breast. 

Nature's best loved, thine own, thy vuluous West, 
Chose for his pencil a Canadian sky : 

Bade Death recede, who the fallen victor prest, 
And made perpetuate his latest sigh.* 

Sully, of tender tints transparent, fain 

I would thy skill a while ; for Memory 's showing, 
To prove thy hand the purest of thy train, 

A native beauty from thy pencil glowing. 
Or he who sketched the Cretan : gone her Greek, 

She, all unconscious that he's false or flying. 
Sleeps, while the light blood revels in her cheek 

So rosy warm, we listen for her sighing.f 

Could he paint beauty, warmth, light, happiness, 
Diflused around like fragrance from a flower — 

And melody — all that sense can bless. 
Or soul concentrate in one form — his power 

I'd ask. But Nature, Nature, when thou wilt, 

Thou canst enough to make all art despair ; 
Guard well the wondrous model thou hast built. 

Which these, thy nectarod waves, reflect and love 
to bear. 
Nature, all powerful Nature, thine are ties 

That seldom break : though the heart beat so cold, 
That Love and Fancy's fairest garland dies — 

Though false, though light as air — thy bonds may 
hold. 
The mother loves her child ; the brother yet 

Thinks of his sister, though for years unseen ; 
And seldom doth the bridegroom quite forget 

Her who hath blest him once, though seas may 
roll between. 
But can a friendship, pure and rapture wrought. 

Endure without such bonds 1 I '11 deem it may, 
And bless the hope it nurtures : beauteous thought, 

Howe'er fantastic ! — dear illusion — stay ! 

Oh stream, oh country of my heart, farewell ! 

Say, shall I e'er return 1 shall I once more — 
Ere close these eyes that looked to love — ah, tell ! 

Say, shall I tread again thy fertile shore ? 
Else, how endure my weary lot — the strife 

To gain content when far — the burning sighs — 
The asking wish — the aching void? Oh, Ufe ! 

Thou art, and hast been, one long sacrifice ! 



« In allusion to West's celebrated picture, ''The Death 
of Wolfe." t Vanderlyn— see his picture of " Ariadne." 



MARIA BROOKS. 



TO NIAGARA. 

SpiniT of Homer ! thou whose song has rung 
From thine own Greece to this supreme abode 
Of Nature — this great fane of Nature's God — 

Breathe on my brain ! oh, touch the fervid tongue 
Of a fond votaress kneeling on the sod ! 

Sublime and Beautiful! your chapel's here — 
Here, 'neath the azure dome of heaven, ye 're wed ; 
Here, on this rock, which ti'embles as I tread, 

Your blended sorcery claims both pulse and tear, 
Controls life's source and reigns o'er heart and head. 

TeiTific, but, oh, beautiful abyss ! 

If I should trust my fascinated eye, 

Or hearken to thy maddening melody, [kiss, 
Sense, form, would spring to meet thy white foam's 

Be lapped in thy soft rainbows once, and die ! 

Color, depth, height, extension — all unite 
To chain the spirit by a look intense ! 
The dolphin in his clearest seas, or thence 

Ta'en, for some queen, to deck of ivory white, 
Dies not in changeful tints more deUcately bright. 

Look, look ! there comes, o'er yon pale green ex- 
Beyond the curtain of this altar vast, [panse, 
A glad young swan ; the smiling beams that cast 

Light from her plumes, have lured her soft advance ; 
She nears the fatal brink : her graceful hfe has past ! 

Look up ! nor her fond, foolish fate disdain : 
An eagle rests upon the wind's sweet breath ; 
Feels he the charm 1 woos he the scene beneath 1 

He eyes the sun ; nerves his dark wing again ; 
Remembers clouds and storms, yet flies the lovely 
death. 

" Niagara ! wonder of this western world. 
And half the world beside ! hail, beauteous que«n 
Of cataracts !" — an angel, who had been [furled, 

O'er heaven and earth, spoke thus, his bright wings 
And knelt to Nature first, on this wild cliff unseen. 



WRITTEN ON SEEING PHARAMOND. 

Hab the blest fair, who gave thee birth, 

Lived where ^gean waves are swelling, 
Ere yet calm Reason came to earth. 

Warm Fancy's lovelier reign dispelhng, 
The Sire of heaven, she had beUeved, 

To stamp thy form had ta'en another,* 
And all who saw had been deceived. 

And given the Delphic god a brother. 
And many a classic page had told 

Of nymphs and goddesses admiring : 
Altars, libations, harps of gold. 

And milkwhite hecatombs expiring. 
And oh ! perchance there had remained 

Some Phidian wonder — still, still breathing 
Love, life, and charms — past, but retained — 

And warmth and bliss had still seemed wreathuig 
Softly around the heaven touched stone. 

As now a light seems from thee beaming ; 
While thought, sense, lost in looks alone, 

Grow dubious if awake or dreaming. 



^ In allusion to the fable of Jupiter and Alcmena. 



And must thou pass 1 nor pictiu-e show, 

Nor sculpture, what my lyre is telling, 
Too feeble lyre ! as morn's bright glow 

Fades o'er the river near thy dwelling ! 
Spirit of Titian ! hear and come, 

If come thou may'st, a moment hither ; 
Leave thy loved Italy, thy home — 

Oh ! let but one acanthus wither 
Round her loved ruins, while thou stayest ; 

Come to these solitudes, and view them : 
Must Genius ne'er their beauties taste, 

Nor tear of rapture ever dew them 1 — 
View the dai'k rock, the melting blue 

Of mount and sky so soft embracing ; 
The bright, broad stream : But beauty, hue, 

Life, form, are here — all else effacing. 
Nature, to mock the forms of bliss 

Which fervid mortals have created. 
From their own souls' excess, made this, 

And gazed at her own powers elated. 

Fragrant o'er all the western groves 

The tall magnolia towers unshaded. 
But soon no more the gale he loves 

Faints on his ivory flowers ; they 're faded. 
The fullblown rose, mid dewy sweets. 

Most perfect dies ; but, soon returning, 
The next born year another greets. 

When summer fires again are burning. 
Another rose may bloom as sweet. 

Other magnolias ope in whiteness — 
But who again fair scenes shall meet 

The like of him who lends you brightness t 
Come, then, my lyre — ere yet again 

Fade these fi-esh fields I .shall forsake them ; 
But some fond ear may hear thy strain. 

When all is cold which thus can wake them. 



I 



PRAYER. 

SiHE of the universe — and me — 

Dost thou reject my midnight prayer ! 
Dost thou withhold me even from thee, 

Thus wTithing, struggUng 'gainst despair ! 
Thou knowest the source of feeling's gush, 

Thou knowest the end for which it flows : 
Then, if thou bidst the tempest rush, 

Ah ! heed the fragile bark it throws ! 

Fain would my heaving heart be still — 

But Pain and Tumult mock at rest: 
Fain would I meekly meet thy will. 

And kiss the barb that tears my breast. 
"Weak I am formed, I can no more — ■ 

Weary I strive, but find not aid ; 
Prone on thy threshold I deplore, 

But ah ! thy succor is delayed. 

The burning, beauteous orb of day, 

Amid its circling host upborne, 
Smiles, as life quickens in its ray : 

What would it, were thy hand withdrawn ! — ■ 
Scorch — devastate the teeming whole 

Now glowing with its warmth divine ! 
Spirit, whose powers of peace control 

Great Nature's heart, oh ! pity mine ! 



MARIA BROOKS. 



89 



SONG. 

Dat, in melting purple dying, 
Blossoms, all around me sighing, 
Fragrance, from the lilies straying, 
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing. 

Ye but waken my distress ; 

I am sick of loneliness. 

Thou, to whom I love to hearken. 
Come, ere night around me darken ; 
Though thy softness but deceive me, 
Say thou 'rt true, and I '11 beheve thee ; 
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent — 
Let me tliink it inn jcent ! 

Save thy toiUng, spare thy treasure : 
All I ask is friendship's pleasure ; 
Let the shining ore lie darkling. 
Bring no gem in lustre sparkling: 

Gifts and gold are naught to me ; 

I would only look on thee ! 

TeU to thee the high wrought feeling, 

Ecstasy but in revealing ; 

Paint to thee the deep sensation, 

Rapture in participation, 

Yet but torture, if comprest 
In a lone, unfriended breast 

Absent still ! Ah ! come and bless me ! 

Let these eyes again caress thee ; 

Once, in caution, I could fly thee : 

Now, I nothing could deny thee ; 
In a look if death there be, 
Come, and I will gaze on thee ! 



FRIENDSHIP. 

To ]\rET.T a fi-iendsliip such as mine, 
Such feehngs must thy soul refine 
As are not oft of mortal birth : 
'Tis love without a stain of earth, 

Fratello del mio cor. 
Looks are its food, its nectar sighs, 
Its couch the lips, its throne the eyes. 
The soul its breath : and so possest. 
Heaven's raptures reign in mortal breast, 

Fratello del mio cor. 

Though Friendship be its earthly name, 
Purely from liighest heaven it came ; 
'Tis seldom felt for more than one, 
And scorns to dwell with Venus' son, 
Fratello del mio cor. 

Him let it view not, or it dies 
Like tender hues of morning skies. 
Or morn's sweet flower of purple glow, 
When sunny beams too ardent grow, 
Fratello del mio cor. 

A charm o'er every object plays; 
All looks so lovely, while it stays. 



So softly forth in rosier tides 

The vital flood ecstatic glides, 

Fratello del mio cor. 

That, wrung by grief to see it part, 
A very hfe drop leaves the heart : 
Such drop, I need not tell thee, fell, 
While bidding it, for thee, farewell ! 
Fratello del mio cor. 



FAREWELL TO CUBA. 

Adteu, fair isle ! I love thy bowers, 
I love thy dark e}'ed daughters there ; 

The cool pomegranate's scarlet flowers 
Look brighter in their jetty hair. 

They praised my forehead's stainless white ! 

And when I thirsted, gave a draught 
From the full clustering cocoa's height. 

And smUing, blessed me as I quaffed. 

Well pleased, the land return I gave. 
And clasped in their embraces' twine. 

Felt the soft breeze, like Lethe's wave. 
Becalm this beating heart of mine. 

Why will my heart so wildly beat 1 
Say, seraphs, is ray lot too blest. 

That thus a fitful, feverish heat 
Must rifle me of health and rest 1 

Alas ! I fear my native snows — 

A clime too cold, a heart too warm — 

Alternate chills, alternate glows — 

Too fiercely threat my flower like form. 

The orange tree has fruit and flowers ; 

The grendilla, in its bloom. 
Hangs o'er its high, luxuriant bowers, 

Like fringes from a Tyrian loom. 

When the white coffee blossoms swell. 
The fair moon full, the evening long, 

I love to hear the warbling bell, 

And sunburnt peasant's wayward song. 

Drive gently on, dark muleteer. 
And the hght seguidilla frame ; 

Fain would I listen still, to hear 
At every close thy mistress' name. 

Adieu, fair isle ! the waving palm 
Is pencilled on thy purest sky ; 

Warm sleeps the bay, the air is balm, 
And, soothed to languor, scarce a sigh 

Escapes for those I love so well. 

For those I've loved and left so long; 
On me their fondest musings dwell, 

To them alone my sighs belong. 
On, on, my bark ! blow, southern breeze ! 

No longer would I lingering stay ; 
'T were better far to die with these 

Than Uve in pleasmre far away. 



JULIA RUSH WARD. 



Miss Julia Rush Cutler, the daughter 
of the late Mr. B. C. Cutler, of Boston, was 
born in that city on the fifth of January, 1796. 
Her maternal ancestors were of South Caro- 
lina, and her grandmother was the only sis- 
ter of the famous partisan leader, General 
Francis Marion. Miss Cutler was married 
on the ninth of October, 1812, when she was 
in the seventeenth year of her age, to the late 
Mr. Samuel Ward, of New York, whose name 
was long conspicuous for his relations with 
the commercial world, and who in private 
life was eminent for all the virtues that 
dignify human nature. Mrs. Ward came to 
New York to reside at a time when Irving, 
Paulding, Cooper, and others, were making 



their first and most brilliant essays in litera- 
ture, and her fine abilities, improved by the 
best culture, brought into her circle the wits 
and men of genius in the city, who soon 
perceived that she needed but provocation to 
claim rank as a star of mild but pervading 
lustre in their brightest constellations. 

The compositions of Mrs. Ward are of the 
class called occasional poems, written with 
grace and sincerity, with a sort of impromptu 
ease, and from a heart full of truth and a 
mind to which beauty was familiar as the air. 

She died on the ninth of November, 1824, 
leaving the inheritance of her genius to her 
daughter, whose literary character is exhib- 
ited in another part of this volume. 



"SI JE TE PERDS, JE SUIS PERDU."* 

The tempest howls, the waves swell high, 

Upward I cast my anxious eye, 

And fix my gaze, amidst the storm. 

Upon thy bright and heavenly form. 

Angel of mercy ! beam to save ; 

See, tossing on the furious wave, 

My little bark is sorely prest : 

Oh, guide me to some port of rest ; 

Shine on, and all piy fears subdue, 

Si je te perds, je suis perdu. 

To catdi the ray, my aching sight 
Shall pierce the gloomy mists of night; 
But if, amidst the driving storm, 
Dark clouds should hide thy glittering form, 
In vain each swelling wave I breast. 
Which rushes on with foaming crest; 
Mid the wild breakers' furious roar, 
Overwhelmed, I sink to rise no more. 
Shine out to meet my troubled view, 
Si je te perds, je suis perdu. 

Then if I catch the faintest gleam. 
Onward I'll rush beneath the beam, 
And fast the winged waves shall bear 
My form upon the midnight air, 
Nor know my breast one anxious fear — 
For I am safe if thou art near. 

* Written on seeing the device on a seal, of a man 
guiding a small boat, with his eye fixed on a star, and 
&iis motto : " Si je te perds, je suis perdu." 



Lead onward, then, while I pursue. 
Si je te perds, je suis perdu. 

So may the Star of Bethlehem's beam 
With holy lustre mildly gleam. 
To guide my soul with sacred light 
Amidst the gloom of eiTor's night ; 
Its cheering ray shall courage give — 
Midst seas of doubt my hope shall live ; 
Though dark and guilty fears may storm, 
Bright peers above its radiant form : 
Though seen by all, yet sought by few, 
Si je te perds, je suis perdu. 

Within my heart the needle lies, 

That upward points me to the skies : 

The tides may swell, the breakers roar. 

And threaten soon to whelm me o'er — 

Their wildest fury I defy : 

While on that Star I keep my eye, 

My trembling bark shall hold her way. 

Still guided by its sacred ray. 

To whose bright beam is homage due. 

Si je te perds, je suis perdu. 

Soon to illume those threatening skies. 
The Sun of Righteousness shall rise. 
And on my soul his glories pour ; 
Securely then my bark I'll moor 
Within that port where all are blest — 
The haven of eternal rest. 
Shine onward, then, and guide me through, 
Si je te perds, je suis perdu. 
90 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



Ltdia Huntlet, now Mrs. Sisotjknet, 
was born on the first of September, 1791, in 
Norwich, Connecticut, a town of which she 
has furnished an agreeable picture in her 
Sketch of Connecticut Fc-ty Years Since, 
and of which she says in one of her poems. 

Sweetly wild 
Were the scenes that chamied me when a child : 
Rocks, gray rocks, with their caverns dai'k. 
Leaping rills, like the diamond spark. 
Torrent voices thundering by 
When the pride of the vernal floods swelled high, 
And quiet roofs like the hanging nest 
Mid cliifs, by the featheiy foliage drest. 

Almost from infancy she was remarkable 
for a love of knowledge, and facility in its 
acquisition. She read with fluency when 
but three years of age, and at eight she wrote 
verses which attracted attention among the 
acquaintances of her family. After comple- 
ting her edttcation, at a boarding school in 
Hariford, she associated herself with Miss 
Hyde, (of whose literary remains she was 
subsequently the editor,) and opened a school 
for girls at Norwich, which was continued 
successfully two years. At the end of this 
period she removed to Hartford, where she 
also pursued the business of teaching. Some 
of her early contributions to the journals hav- 
ing attracted the attention of the late Daniel 
Wadsworth,* a wealthy and intelligent gen- 
tleman of that city, he induced her to collect 
and publish them in a volume, which ap- 
peared in 1815, under the modest title of 
Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse, which very 
well indicates its general character. None 
of its contents are deserving of special com- 
mendation, but they are all respectable, and 
the volume procured her an accession of rep- 
utation which was probably of much indirect 
advantage. 

In 1819 Miss Huntley was married to Mr. 
Charles Sigourney, a reputable merchant and 
banker of Hartford, and she did not appear 

* Mr. Wadsworth, to whose early perception nnd libe- 
eral encouragement of the abilities of Miss Huntley we 
are perhaps indebted for their successful devotion to lit- 
erature, died at Hartford on the 28th of July. 1848 — since 
the above paragraphs were written. The Wadsworth Ath- 
enaeum and the Wadsworth Tower are pleasing memori- 
als to the people of Hartford of his taste and liberality. 



again as an author until 1822, when she pub- 
lished in Cambridge her Traits of the Abo- 
rigines of America, a descriptive, historical, 
and didactic poem, in five cantos. It is a 
sort of poetical discourse upon the discovery 
and settlement of this continent, and the du- 
ties of its present masters toward the abo- 
rigines, but it is too discursive to produce 
the deep impression which might have been 
made with such a display of abilities, learn- 
ing, and just opinions. Its tone is dignified 
and sustained, and it contains passages of 
considerable power and beauty, though few 
that can be separated from their contexts 
without some injustice to the author. The 
condition of the Indian before the invasion 
of the European is thus forcibly sketched in 
the beginning of the first canto : 

O'er the vast regions of that western world. 
Whose lofty mountains hiding in the clouds. 
Concealed their grandeur and their wealth so long 
From European eyes, the Indian roved 
Free and unconquered. From those frigid plains 
Stntck with the torpor of the arctic pole. 
To where Magellan lifts his torch to light 
The meeting of the waters ; from the shore 
Whose smooth green line the broad Atlantic laves, 
To the rude borders of that rocky strait 
Where haughty Asia seems to stand and gaze 
On the new continent, the Indian reigned 
Majestic and alone. Fearless he rose. 
Firm as his mountains ; like his rivers, wild ; 
Bold as those lakes whose wondrous chain controls 
His northern coast. The forest and the wave 
Gave him his food ; the slight constructed hut 
Furnished his shelter, and its doors spread wide 
To every wandering stranger. There his cup, 
His simple meal, his lowly couch of skins. 
Were hospitably shared. Rude were his toils. 
And rash his daring, when he headlong rushed 
Down the steep precipice to seize his prey ; 
Strong was his arm to bend the stubborn bow. 
And keen his arrow. This the bison knew. 
The spotted panther, the rough, shaggy bear. 
The wolf dark prowling, the eye piercing lynx. 
The wild deer bounding through the shadowy glade. 
And the swift eagle, soaring high to make 
His nest among the stars. Clothed in their spoils 
He dared the elements : with eye sedate. 
Breasted the wintry winds ; o'er the white heads 
Of angry toiTents steered his rapid bark 
Light as their foam ; mounted with tireless speed 
Those slippery cliffs, where everlasting snows 
Weave their dense robes ; or laid him down to sleep 



9a 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



Where the dread thunder of the cataract lulled 
His drowsy sense. The dangerous toils of war 
He sought and loved. Traditions, and proud tales 
Of other days, exploits of chieftains bold, 
Dii'intless and terrible, the warrior's song, 
The victor's triumph — all conspired to raise 

The martial spirit 

Oft the rude, wandering tribes 
Rushed on to battle. Their aspiring chiefs, 
Lofty and iron framed, with native hue 
Strangely disguised in wild and glaring tints, 
Frowned like some Pictish king. The conflict raged 
Fearless and fierce, mid shouts and disarray, 
As the swift lightning urges its dire shafts [blasts 
Through clouds and darkness, when the warring 
Awaken midnight. O'er the captive foe 
Unsated vengeance stormed : flame and slow wounds 
Racked the strong bonds of life ; but the tirm soul 
Smiled in its fortitude to mock the rage 
Of its tormentors ; when the crisping nerves 
Were broken, still exulting o'er its pain, 
To rise unmurmuring to its father's shades. 
Where m delightful bowers the brave and just 

Rest and rejoice 

Yet those untutored tribes 
Bound with their stern resolves and savage deeds 
Some gentle virtues ; as beneath the gloom 
Of overshadowing forests sweetly springs 

The unexpected flower Their uncultured hearts 

Gave a strong soil for fi'iendship, that bold growth 

Of generous affection, changeless, pure. 

Self sacrificing, counting losses light. 

And yielding life with gladness. By its side, 

Like sister plant, sprang ardent Gratitude, 

Virid, perennial, braving winter's frost 

And suniraer'sheat; while nursed by the same dews. 

Unbounded reverence for the form of age 

Struck its deep root spontaneous With pious awe 

Their eyes uplifted sought the hidden path 

Of the Great Spirit. The loud midnight storm. 

The rush of mighty waters, the deep roll 

Of thunder, gave his voice ; the golden sun, 

The soft effulgence of the purple morn. 

The gentle rain distilling, was his smile. 

Dispensing good to all In various forms arose 

Their superstitious homage. Some with blood 
Of human sacrifices sought to appease 
That anger which in pestilence, or dearth, 
Or famine, stalked ; and their astonished vales. 
Like Carthaginian altars, frequent drank 
The horrible Ubation. Some, with fruits, 
Sweet flowers, and incense of their choicest herbs, 
Sought to propitiate Him whose powerful hand 
Unseen sustained them. Some with mystic rites. 
The ark, the orison, the paschal feast. 
Through glimmering tradition seemed to bear, 
As in some broken vase, the smothered coals 
Scattered from Jewish altars. 

Of the regions which first greeted the Scan- 
dinavian discoverer she says : 

There Winter frames 
The boldest architecture, rears strong towers 
Of rugged frostwork, and deep laboring throws 
A glassy pavement o'er rude tossiirg floods. 



Long near this coast he lingered, half illumed 
By the red gleaming of those fitful flames 
Which wrathful Hecla through her veil of snows 
Darts on the ebon night. Oft he recalled, 
Pensive, his simple home, ere the New World, 
Enwrapped in polar robes, with frigid eye 
Received him, and in rude winds hoarsely hailed 
Her earliest guest. Thus the stern king of storms, 
Swart Eolus, bade his imprisoned blasts 
Breathe dissonant welcome to the restless queen. 
Consort of Jove, whose unaccustomed step 
Invaded his retreat. The pilgrim band 
Amazed beheld those mountain ramparts float 
Around their coast, where hoary Time had toiled, 
Even from his infancy, to point sublime 
Their pyramids, and strike their awful base 
Deep 'neath the main. Say, Darwin, Fancy's son ! 
What armor shall he choose who dares complete 
Thine embassy to the dire kings who frown 
Upon those thrones of frost 1 what force compel 
Their abdication of their favored realm 
And rightful royalty 1 what pilot's eye, 
Unglazed by death, direct their devious course 
(Tremendous navigation !) to allay 
The fervor of the tropics 1 Proudly gleam 
Their sparkling masses, shaming the brief dome 
Which Russia's empress queen bade the chill boor 
Quench life's frail lamp to rear. Now they assume 
The front of old cathedral gray with years; 
Anon their castellated turrets glow 
In high baronial pomp ; then the tall mast 
Of lofty fi-igate, peering o'er the cloud. 
Attracts the eye ; or some fair island spreads 
Towns, towers, and mountains, cradled in a flood 
Of rainbow lustre, changeful as the web 
From fairy loom, and wild as fabled tales 
Of Arahy. 

At the close of the poem is a large body of 
curious and entertaining notes, scarcely ne- 
cessary for its illustration, but welcome as 
a collection of well written and instructive 
miscellanies upon the various subjects inci- 
dentally suggested or referred to in it. 

In 1824 Mrs. Sigourney published in prose 
A Sketch of Connecticut Forty Years Since ; 
in 1827, Poemsby the author of Moral Pieces; 
in 1833, Poetry for Children ; in 1 834, Sketch- 
es, a collection of prose tales and essays; in 
1835, Zinzindorf and other Poems; in 1836, 
Letters to Young Ladies : and, in 1838, Let- 
ters to Mothers. In the summer of 1 840 she 
went to Europe, and after visiting many of 
the most interesting places in England, Scot- 
land, and France, and publishing a collection 
of her works in London, she returned in the 
following April to Hartford. 

In 1841 appeared her Select Poems, em- 
bracing those which best satisfied her own 
judgment in previous volumes, and in the 
same year, with many other pieces, Poca- 
hontas, the best of her long poems, and much 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



93 



the best of the many poetical compositions 
of which the famous daughter of Powhatan 
has been the subject. Pocahontas is in the 
Spenserian measure, wliich is used with con- 
siderable felicity, as will be seen from the 
following description of the heroine in early 
womanhood, while the thoughtful beauty for 
which slie is celebrated is ripening to its most 
controlling splendor: 

On sped the seasons, and the forest child 
Was rounded to the symmetry of youth ; 
AVhile o'er her features stole, serenely mild. 
The ti'embling sanctity of woman's truth. 
Her modesty, and simpleness, and grace : 
Yet those who deeper scan the human face, 
Amid the trial hour of fear or ruth, 
Might clearly read, upon its heaven writ scroll. 
That high and firm resolve which nerved the Roman 
soul. 

Theslmplesportstliatcharm'dherchildhood'sway, 
Her greenwood gambols mid the matted vmes. 
The curious glance of wild and searching ray, 
Where innocence with ignorance combmes. 
Were changed for deeper thought's persuasive air, 
Or that high port a princess well might wear : 
So fades the doubtful star when morning shines ; 
So melts the young dawn at the enkindling ray, 
And on the ciimson cloud casts otf its mantle gray. 

Though Pocahontas is the most sustained of 
Mrs. Sigourney's poems, the contents of this 
volume do not altogether exhibit any deeper 
thoughi, or finer fancy, or larger command 
of poetical language, than some of her pro- 
ductions that had been many years before the 
public. 

In 1842 she published Pleasant Memories 
of Pleasant Lands, the records, in prose and 
verse, of impressions made during her tour 
in Europe. Two years afterward this was 
followed by a similar work under the title of 
Scenes in my Native Laud ; and in 1S46, by 
Myrtis, with other Etchings and Sketchings. 
The niosl complete and elegant edition of her 
poems was published by Carey and Hart, with 
illustrations by Darley, in 1848. 

Mrs. Sigourney has acquired a wider and 
more per vading reputation than many women 
will receive in this country. The limes have 
been favorable for her, and the tone of her 
works such as is most likely to be accepta- 
ble in a primitive and pious community. 
Though possessing but little constructive 
power, she has a ready expression, and an 
ear naturally so sensiiive to harmony that it 
has scarcely been necessary for her to study 
the principles of versification in order to 
produce some of its finest effects. She sings 



impulsively from an atmosphere of affection- 
ate, pious, and elevated sentiment, rather 
than from the consciousness of subjective 
ability. In this respect she is uot to be com- 
pared with some of our female poets, who 
exhibit au affluence of diction, a soundness 
of understanding, and a strength of imagina- 
tion, that justify the belief of their capability 
for the highest attainments in those fields of 
poetical art in which women have yet been 
distinguished. Whether there is in her na- 
ture the latent energy and exquisite suscep- 
tibility that, under favorable circumstances, 
might have warmed her sentiment into pas- 
sion, and her fancy into imagination ; or 
whether the absence of any deep emotion 
and creative power is to be attributed to a 
quietness of life and satisfaction of desires 
that forbade the development of the full force 
of her being ; or whether benevolence and 
adoration have had the mastery of her life, 
as might seem, and led her other faculties 
in captivity, we know too little of her secret 
experiences to form an opinion : but the abil- 
ities displayed in Napoleon's Epitaph and 
some other pieces in her works, suggest that 
it is only because the flower has not been 
crushed that we have not a richer perfume. 
The late Mr. Alexander H. Everett, in a 
reviewal of the works of Mrs. Sigourney, 
published a short time before his departure 
for China, observes that " they express with 
great purity and evident sincerity the tender 
affections which are so natural to the female 
heart, and the lofty aspirations after a higher 
and better state of being which constitute the 
truly ennobling and elevating principle in art 
as well as nature. Love and religion are the 
unvarying elements of her song.. ..If her pow- 
ers of expression were equal to the purity and 
elevation of her habits of thought and feeling, 
she would be a female Milton or a Christian 
Pindar. But though she does not inherit 

' Tbe force and ample pinion tiiat tbe Theban eagles bear, 
Sailing with supreme dominion tlirougli tbe liquid vaults of air,' 

she nevertheless manages language with ease 
and elegance, and often with much of the 
curiosa felicitas, that 'refined felicity' of 
e.xpression, which is, after all, the principal 
charm in poetry. In blank verse she is very 
successful. The poems that she has written 
in this measure have not imfrequently much 
of the manner of Wordsworth, and may be 
nearly or quite as highly relished by his ad- 
mirers." 



94 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



THE WESTEBN EMIGRANT. 

An' axe rang sharply mid those forest shades 
Which from creation toward the sky had towered 
In unshorn beaut)'. There, with vigorous arm, 
Wrought a bold emigrant, and by his side 
His little son, with question and response. 
Beguiled the toil. " Boy, thou hast never seen 
Such glorious trees. Hark, when their giant trunks 
Fall, how the firm earth groans ! Rememberest thou 
The mighty river, on whose breast we sailed 
So many days, on toward the setting sun 1 
Our own Connecticut, compared to that, 
Was but a creeping stream." — " Father, the brook 
That by our door went sinking, where I launched 
My tiny boat, with my young playmates round 
Wlie:i school was o'er, is deai'er far to me 
Than all these bold, broad waters. To my eye 
They are as strangers. And those little trees 
My mother nurtured in the garden bound 
Of our first home, from whence the fragrant peach 
Hung in its ripening gold, were fairer, sure. 
Than this dark forest, shutting out the day." 
— " What, ho ! my little girl," and with light step 
A fairy creature hasted toward her sire. 
And, setting down the basket that contained 
His noon repast, looked upward to his face 
With sweet, confiding smile. " See, dearest, see. 
That bright winged paroquet, and hear the song 
Of yon gay red bird, echoing through the trees, 
Making rich music. Didst thou ever hear. 
In far New England, such a mellow toneV 
— " I bad a robin that did take the crumbs 
Each night and morning, and his chirping voice 
Did make me joyful as I went to tend 
My snowdrops. I was always laughmg then 
In that first home. I should be happier now, 
Methinks, if I cou'd find among these dells 
The same fresh violets." Slow night drew on. 
And round the rude hut of the emigrant 
The wrathful spirit of the rising storm 
Spake bitter things. His weary children slept, 
And be, with head declined, sat listening long 
To the swollen waters of the Illinois, 
Dashing against their shores. Starting, he spake : 
" Wife I did I see thee brush away a tear 1 
'T was even so. Thy heart was with the halls 
Of thy nativity. Their sparkling lights. 
Carpets, and sofas, and admirmg guests. 
Befit thee better than these rugged walls 
Of shapeless logs, and this lone, hermit home." 
— " No, no. AH was so still around, methought 
Upon mine ear that echoed hymn did steal, 
Whichmidthe church, where erst we paid our vows, 
So tuneful pealed. But tenderly thy voice 
Dissolved the illusion." And the gentle smile 
Lighting her brow, the fond caress that soothed 
Her waking infant, reassured his soul 
That, wheresoe'er our best affections dwell, 
And strike a healthful root, is happiness. 
Content and placid, to his rest he sank ; 
But dreams, those wild magicians, that do play 
Such pranks when reason slumbers, tireless wrought 
Their will with him. Up rose the thronging mart 
Of liis own native city — roof and spire, 



All glittering bright, in fancy's fi-ostwork ray. 
The steed his boyhood nurtured proudly neighed, 
The favorite dog came fnsking round his feet 
With shrill and joyous bark ; famiUar doors 
Flew open ; greeting hands with his were linked 
In fiiendship's grasp ; he heard the keen debate 
From congregated haunts, where mind with mind 
Doth blend and brighten : and till morning roved 
Mid the loved scenery of his native land. 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

How slow yon lonely vessel ploughs the main ! 
Amid the heavy billows now she seems 
A toiling atom ; then irom wave to wave 
Leaps madly, by the tempest lashed, or reels [wane. 
Half wrecked thro' gulfs profound. Moons wax and 
But still that patient traveller treads the deep. 
— I see an icebound coast toward which she steers 
With such a tardy movement, that it seems 
Stern Winter's hand hath turned her keel to stone. 
And sealed his victory on her slippery shrouds. 
— They land I they land ! not like the Genoese, 
With glittering sword, and gaudy train, and eye 
Kindling with golden fancies. Forth they come 
From their long pri.son, hardy forms that brave 
The world's unkindness, men of hoary hair. 
Maidens of fearless heart, and matrons grave, 
Who hush the wailing infant with a glance. 
Bleak Nature's desolation wiaps them round. 
Eternal forests, and unyielding earth. 
And savage men, who through the thickets peer 
With vengeful arrow. What could lure their steps 
To this drear desert ? Ask of him who left 
His father's home to roam through Haran's wilds, 
Distrusting not the guide who called him forth, 
Nor doubting, though a stranger, that his seed 
Should be as ocean's sands. But yon lone bark 
Hath spread her parting sail ; they crowd the strand. 
Those few, lone pilgrims. Can ye scan the wo 
That wrings their bosoms, as the last fi-ail link. 
Binding to man and habitable earth. 
Is severed ? Can ye tell what pangs were there. 
With keen regrets ; what sickness of tlie heart, 
What yearnings o'er their forfeit land of birth. 
Their distant dear ones ? Long, with straining eye. 
They watch the lessening speck. Heardye no shriek 
Of anguish, when that bitter loneliness 
Sank down into their bosoms '! No ! they turn 
Back to their dreary, famished huts, and pray ! 
Pray, and the ills that haunt this transient life 
Fade into air. Up in each girded breast 
There sprang a rooted and mysterious strength, 
A loftiness to face a world in arms. 
To strip the pomp from sceptres, and to lay 
On D\ity's sacred altar the warm blood 
Of slain affections, should they rise between 
The soul and Gob. ye, who proudly boast, 
In your free veins, the blood of sires like these. 
Look to their lineaments. Dread lest ye lose 
Their likeness in your sons. .Should Mammon cling 
Too close around your heart, or wealth beget 
That bloated luxury which eats the core 
From manly virtue, or the tempting world 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



95 



Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul, 
Turn ye to Plymouth rock, and where they knelt 
Kneel, and renew the vow they breathed to God. 



WINTEH,. 

I DEEM thee not milovely, though thou comest 
With a stem visage. To the tuneful bird, 
The blushing floweret, the rejoicing stream, 
Thy discipline is harsh. But unto man 
Methinks thou hast a kindUer ministry. 
Thy lengthened eve is full of fireside joys, 
And deathless linking of warm heart to heart, 
So that the hoai'se storm passes by unheard. 
Eai"th, robed in wliite, a peaceful sabbath holds, 
And keepeth silence at her Maker's feet. 
She ceaseth from the harrowing of the plough, 
And from the harvest shouting. Man should rest 
Thus from his fevered passions, and exhale 
The unbreathed carbon of his festering thought, 
And drink m holy health. As the tossed bark 
Doth seek the shelter of some quiet bay 
To trim its scattered cordage, and restore 
Its liven sails — so should the toilwom mind 
Refit for Time's rough voyage. Man, perchance. 
Soured by the world's sharp commerce, or impaired 
By the wild wanderings of his summer way, 
Turns like a truant scholar to his home, 
And yields his nature to sweet influences 
That purify and save. The ruddy boy [sport. 
Comes with his shouting schoolmates from their 
On the smooth, frozen lake, as the first star 
Hangs, pure and cold, its twinkling cresset forth, 
And, throwing off his skates with boisterous glee, 
Hastes to Iris mother's side. Her tender hand 
Doth shake the snowflakes from Ms glossy curls, 
And draw him nearer, and with gentle voice 
Asks of his lessons, while her lifted heart 
Solicits silently the Sire of heaven 
To " bless the lad." Tlie timid infant learns 
Better to love its sire, and longer sits 
Upon his knee, and with a velvet lip 
Prints on his brow such language as the tongue 
Hath never spoken. Come thou to life's feast 
With dove eyed Meekness, and bland Charity, 
And thou slialt find even Winter's rugged blasts 
The minstrel teacher of thy well tuned soul, 
And when the last drop of its cup is drained — • 
Arising with a song of praise — go up 
To the eternal banquet. 



NIAGARA. 

Flow on, for ever, in thy glorious robe 
Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on 
Unfathomed and resistless. God hath set 
His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud 
Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give 
Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him 
Eternally — bidding the lip of man 
Keep silence — and upon thy rocky altar pour 
Incense of awe struck praise. Ah ! who can dare 
To lift the insect trump of earthly hope, 
Or love, or sorrow, mid the peal sublime 



Of thy tremendous hynm? Even Ocean shrinks 

Back from thy brotherhood : and all his waves 

Retire abashed. For he doth sometimes seem 

To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall 

His wearied billows from their vexing play, 

And lull them to a cradle calm: but thou, 

M^ith everlasting, undecaying tide. 

Dost rest not, night or day. The morning stars, 

When first they sang o'er young Creation's birth , 

Heard thy deep anthem ; and those wrecking fires, 

That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve 

This solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name 

Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears. 

Of thine unending volume. Every leaf, 

That lifts itself within thy wide domain. 

Doth gather greenness from thy living spray. 

Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo ! yon birds 

Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wing 

Amid thy mist and foam. 'T is meet for them 

To touch thy garment's hem, and lightly stir 

The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath, 

For they may sport rmharmed amid the cloud. 

Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven. 

Without reproof. But as for us, it seems 

Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak 

Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to tint 

Thy glorious features with our pencil's point, 

Or woo thee to the tablet of a song, 

Were profanation. Thou dost make the soul 

A wondering witness of thy majesty. 

But as it presses with delirious joy 

To pierce tli}^ vestibule, dost chain its step, 

And tame its rapture, with the humbling view 

Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand 

In the dread presence of the Invisible, 

As if to answer to its God through thee. 



THE ALPINE FLOWERS. 

Meek dwellers mid yon terror stricken cliffs ! 
With brows so pure, and incense breathing lips, 
Whence are y e ? Did some white winged messenger 
On Mercy's missions trust your timid germ 
To the cold cradle of eternal snows ] 
Or, breathing on the callous icicles. 
Did them with tear drops nurse ye 1 — 

— 'Tree nor shrub 
Dare that drear atmosphere ; no polar pine 
Uproars a veteran front ; yet there ye stand. 
Leaning your cheeks against the thick ribbed ice. 
And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him 
Who bids you bloom unblanched amid the waste 
Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils 
O'er slippery steeps, or, trembling, freads the verge 
Of yawning gulfs, o'er which the headlong plunge 
Is to eternity, looks shuddering up. 
And marks ye in your placid loveliness — 
Fearless, yet frail — and, clasping his chill hands. 
Blesses your pencilled beauty. Mid the pomp 
Of mountain summits rushing on the sky. 
And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, 
He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, 
Inhales your spirit from the fi-ost winged gale, 
And freer dreams of heaven. 



96 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



NAPOLEON'S EPITAPH. 

" The moon of St. Helena shnne out, and there we saw the face of 
Napoleun'a sepulchre, characlerieau, uninacribed." 



And who shall write thine epitaph, thou man 
Of mystery and might ! Shall orphan hands 
Inscribe it with theii- father's broken swords 'i 
Or the warm trickling of the widow's tear 
Channel it slowly mid the rugged rock, 
As the keen torture of the water drop [ghosts 
Doth wear the sentenced brain ? Shall countless 
Arise from hades, and in lurid flame 
With shadowy finaer trace thine effigy. 
Who sent them to their audit unannealod, 
And with but that brief space for shrift of prayer 
Given at the cannon's mouth 1 Thou, who didst sit 
Like eagle on the apex of the globe. 
And hear the murmur of its conquered tribes, 
As chii-p the weak voiced nations of the grass, 
Why art thou sepulchred in yon far isle. 
Yon Utile speck, which scarce the mariner 
Descries mid ocean's foam ? Thou, who didst hew 
A pathway for thy host above the cloud. 
Guiding their footsteps o'er the fi-ostwork crown 
Of the throned Alps, why dost thou sleep unmarked, 
Even by such slight memento as the hind 
Carves on his own coarse tombstone 1 Bid the 

throng 
Who poured thee incense, as Olympian Jove, 
And breathed thy thunders on the battle iield. 
Return, and rear thy monument. Those forms 
O'er the wide valleys of red slaughter spread, 
From pole to ti'opic, and from zone to zone. 
Heed not thy clarion call. But should they rise, 
As in the vision that the prophet saw. 
And each dry bone its severed fellow find. 
Piling their pillared dust as er.st they gave 
Their souls for thee, the wondering stars might deem 
A second time the puny pride of man 
Did creep by stealth upon its Babel stairs. 
To dwell with them. But here unwept thou art, 
Like a dead hon in his thicket lair. 
With neither living man nor spirit condemned 
To write thine epitaph. Invoke the climes. 
Who served as playthings in thy desperate game 
Of mad ambition, or their treasures strewed 
Till meagre Tamine on their vitals preyed. 
To pay the reckoning. France ! who gave so free 
Thy life stream to his cup of wine, and saw 
That purple outage shed over half the earth. 
Write the first line, if tltou hast blood to spare. 
Thou, too, whose pride did deck dead Ccesar's tomb, 
And chant high requiem o'er the tyrant band 
Who had their birth with thee, lend us thine arts 
Of sculpture and of classic eloquence. 
To grace his obsequies at whose dark frown 
Thine ancient spirit quailed, and to the list 
Of mutilated kings, who gleaned their meat 
'JVcath Agag's table, add the name of Rome. 
— Turn, Austria ! iron browed and stem of heart. 
And on his monument, to whom thou gavest 
In anger, battle, and in craft a bride. 
Grave "Austerlitz," and fiercely turn away. 
— As the reined war horse snuffs the trumpet blast. 
Rouse Prussia from her trance with Jena's name, 



And bid her witness to that fame which soars 
O'er him of Macedon, and shames the vaunt 
Of Scandinavia's madman. From the shades 
Of lettered ease, oh, Germany ! come forth 
With pen of fire, and from thy troubled scroll, 
Such as thou spreadst at Leipsic, gather tints 
Of deeper character than bold Romance 
Hath ever imaged in her wildest dream, 
Or History trusted to her sybil leaves. 
— Hail, lotus crowned ! in thy green childhood fed 
By stiff necked Pharaoh and the shepherd kings, 
Hast thou no tale of him who drenched thy sands 
At Jaffa and Aboukir ! when the flight 
Of rushing souls went up so strange and strong 
To the accusing Spirit ? — Glorious isle I 
Wliose thrice enwreathed chain, Promethean like. 
Did bind him to the fatal rock, we ask 
Thy deep memento for this marble tomb. 
— Ho ! fur clad Russia I with thy spear of firost, 
Or with thy winter mocking Cossack's lance. 
Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain. 
And give the last line of our epitaph. 
— But there was silence : for no sceptred hand 
Received the challenge. From the misty deep, 
Rise, island spirits ! hke those sisters three 
Who spin and cut the trembUng thread of life — 
Rise on your coral pedestals, and write 
That eulogy which haughtier climes deny. 
Come, for ye lulled him in your matron arms. 
And cheered his exile with the name of king. 
And spread that curtained couch which none disturb, 
Come, twine some trait of household tenderness, 
Some tender leaflet, nursed with Nature's tears. 
Around this urn. — But Corsica, who rocked 
His cradle at Ajaccio, turned away ; 
And tiny Elba in the Tuscan wave 
Threw her slight annal with the haste of fear ; 
And rude Helena, sick at heart, and gray 
'Neath the Pacific's smiling, bade the moon. 
With silent finger, point the traveller's gaze 
To an unhonored tomb. — Then Earth arose. 
That blind old empress, on her crumbling throne, 
And to the echoed question, " Who shall write 
Napoleon's epitaph?" as one who broods 
O'er unforgiven injuries, answered, " None !'* 



DEATH OF AN INFANT. 

Death found strange beauty on that polished 
brow, 
And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose 
On cheek and lip. He touched the veins with ice, 
And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes 
There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt 
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence 
Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound 
The silken fringes of those curtaining lids 
For ever. There had been a murmuring sound 
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, 
Charirdng her even to tears. The spoiler set 
The seal of silence. But there beamed a smile. 
So fixed, so holy, from that cherub brow. 
Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal 
The signet ring of Heaven. 



I 



LYDIA H. SIGOUKNEY. 



97 



MONODY ON MRS. HEMANS. 

Natcre doth mourn for thee. There comes a voice 
From her far solitudes, as though the winds 
Murjiiured low dirges, or the waves complained. 
Even the meek plant, that never sang before, 
Save one brief requiem, when its blossoms fell, 
Seems through its drooping leaves to sigh for thee, 
As for a florist dead. The ivy, wreathed 
Round the gray turrets of a buried race. 
And the proud palm trees, that like priiices rear 
Their diadems 'neath Asia's sultry sky. 
Blend with their ancient lore thy hallowed name. 
Thy music, like baptismal dev, did make 
Whate'er it touched more holy. The pure shell, 
Pressing its pearly lip to Ocean's floor ; 
The cloistered chambers, where the seagods sleep ; 
And the unfathomed, melancholy Main, 
Lament for thee through all the sounding deeps. 
Hark ! from sky piercing Himmaleh, to where 
Snowdon doth weave his coronet of cloud — 
From the scathed pine tree, near the red man's hut, 
To where the everlasting Banian builds 
Its vast columnar temple, comes a wail 
For her who o'er the dim cathedral's arch. 
The quivering sunbeam on the cottage wall, 
Or the sere desert, poured the lofty chant 
And ritual of the muse : who found the link 
That joins mute Nature to ethereal mind, 
And make that link a melody. The vales 
Of glorious Albion heard thy tuneful fame, [bards 
And those green chfl's, where erst the Cambrian 
Swept their indignant lyres, exulting tell 
How oft thy fairy foot in childhood climbed 
Their rude, romantic heights. Y'et was the couch 
Of thy last slumber in yon verdant isle 
Of song, and eloquence, and ardent soul — 
Which, loved of lavish skies, though banned by fate, 
Seemed as a type of thine own varied lot. 
The crowned of Genius, and the child of Wo. 
For at thy breast the ever pointed thorn 
Did gird itself in secret, mid the gush 
Of such unstained, sublime, impassioned song, 
That angels, poising on some silver cloud, 
Might listen mid the errands of the skies. 
And linger all unblaraed. How tenderly 
Doth Nature draw her curtain round thy rest. 
And, like a nurse, with flnger on her lip, 
Watch that no step disturb thee, and no hand 
Profane thy sacred harp. Methinks she waits 
Thy waking, as some cheated mother hangs 
O'er the pale babe, whose spirit Death hath stolen, 
And laid it dreaming on the lap of Heaven. 
Said we that thou art dead 1 We dare not. No. 
For every mountain, stream, or shady dell. 
Where thy rich echoes Unger, claim thee still, 
Their own undying one. To thee was known 
Alike the language of the fragile flower 
And of the burnmg stars. God taught it thee. 
So, from thy Uving intercourse with man. 
Thou slialt not pass, imtii the weary earth 
Drops her last gem into the doomsday flame. 
Thou hast but taken thy seat with that blest choir, 
Whose harmonies th}^ spirit learned so well 
Through this low, darkened casement, and so long 



Interpreted for us. Why should we say 
Farewell to thee, since every imbom age 
Shall mix thee with its household chaiities ? 
The hoary sire shall bow his deafened ear. 
And greet thy sweet words with his benison ; 
The mother shrine thee as a vestal flame 
In the lone temple of her sanctitj' ; 
And the j'oung child who takes thee by the hand. 
Shall travel with a smrer step to heaven. 



THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON." 

Lo^^G hast thou slept unnoted. Nature stole 
In her soft ministry around thy bed. 
Spreading her vernal tissue, violet gemmed. 
And pearled with dews. 

She bade bright Summer bring 
Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds, 
And Autumn cast his reaper's coronet 
Down at thy feet, and stormy Winter speak 
Sternly of man's neglect. But now we come 
To do thee homage — mother of our chief! 
Fit homage — such as honoreth him who pays. 

Methinks we see thee — as in olden time — ■ 
Simple in garb — majestic and serene. 
Unmoved by pomp or circumstance — in truth 
Inflexible, and with a Spartan zeal 
Repressing vice and making folly grave. 
Thou didst not deem it woman's part to waste 
Life in inglorious sloth — to sport a while 
Amid the flowers, or on the summer wave ; 
Then fleet, like the ephemeron, away. 
Building no temple in her children's hearts, 
Save to the vanity and pride of life 
Which she had worshipped. 

For the might that clothed 
The " Pater Patrije" — for the glorious deeds 
That make Mount Vernon's tomb a Mecca shrine 
For all the earth — what thanks to thee are due. 
Who, mid his elements of being, wrought. 
We know not — Heaven can tell ! 

Rise, sculptured pile ! 
And show a race unborn who rest below. 
And say to mothers what a holy charge 
Is theirs — with what a kingly power their love 
Might I'ule the fountains of the newborn mind. 
Warn them to wake at early dawn, and sow 
Good seed before the World hath sown her tares ; 
Nor in their toil decline — that angel bands 
May put the sickle in, and reap for God, 
And gather to his gamer. Ye, who stand. 
With thrilling breast, to view her trophied praise. 
Who nobly reared Virginia's godlike cliief— • 
Ye, whose last thought upon your nightly couch, 
Wliose first at waking, is your cradled son. 
What though no high ambition prompts to rear 
A second Washington, or leave your name 
Wrought out in marble with a nation's tears 
Of deathless gratitude — ^yet may you raise 
A monument above the stars — a soul 
Led by your teachings and your prayers to God. 



' On laying the comer stone of her monument at Fred- 
ericksburg, Virginia. 



98 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 

It stood among the chestnuts — its white spire 
And slender turrets pointing where man's heart 
Should oftener turn. Up went the wooded cliifs, 
Abruptly beautiful, above its head, 
Shutting with verdant screen the waters out, 
That just beyond, in deep sequestered vale, 
Wrought out their rocky passage. Clustering roofs 
And varying sounds of village industry 

Swelled fi'om its margin 

But all around 
The solitary dell, where meekly rose 
That consecrated church, there was no voice 
Save what still Nature in her worship breathes. 
And that unspoken lore with which the dead 

Do commune with the living And melhought 

How sweet it were, so near the sacred house 
Where we had heard of Christ, and taken his yoke, 
And sabbath after sabbath gathered strength 
To do his will, thus to lie down and rest. 
Close 'neath the shadow of its peaceful walls; 
And when the hand doth moulder, to lift up 
Our simple tombstone witness to that faith 
Which can not die. 

Heaven bless thee, lonely church, 
And daily mayst thou warn a pilgrim-band 
From toil, from cumbrance, and from strife to flee, 
And drink the waters of eternal life ; 
Still in sweet fellowship with trees and skies. 
Friend both of earth and heaven, devoutly stand 
To guide the living and to guard the dead. 



SOLITUDE. 

Deep solitude I sought. There was a dell 
Where woven shades shut out the eye of day. 
While, towering near, the rugged mountains made 
Dark background 'gainst the sky. Thither I went, 
And bade my spirit taste that lonely fount. 
For which it long had thirsted mid the strife 
And fever of the world. — I thought to be 
There without witness : but the violet's eye 
Looked up to greet me, the fresh wild rose smiled. 
And the young pendent vine flower kissed my cheek. 
There were glad voices too : the garrulous brook, 
Untiling, to' the patient pebbles told 
Its history. Up came the singing breeze. 
And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake 
Responsive, every one. Even busy life 
Woke in that dell ; the dexterous spider threw 
From spray to spray the silver-tissued snare. 
The thrifty ant, whose curving pincers pierced 
The rifled grain, toiled toward her citadel. 
To her sweet hive went forth the loaded bee, 
While, from her wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird 
Sang to her nurslings. 

Yet I strangely thought 
To be alone and silent in thy realm. 
Spirit of life and love ! It might not be : 
There is no solitude in thy domains. 
Save what man makes, when in his selfish breast 
He locks his joy, and shuts out others' grief. 
Thou hast not left thyself in this wide world 
Without a witness : even the desert place 



Speaketh thy name ; the simple flowers and streams 
Are social and benevolent, and he 
Who holdeth converse in their language pure. 
Roaming among them at the cool of day. 
Shall find, hke him who Eden's garden dressed, 
His Maker there, to teach his listening heart. 



SUNSET ON THE ALLEGANY. 

I WAS a pensive pilgrim at the foot 
Of the crowned Allegany, when he wrapped 
His purple mantle gloriously around. 
And took the homage of the princely hills, 
And ancient forests, as they bowed them down, 
Each in his order of nobility. 
■ — And then, in glorious pomp, the sun retired 
Behind that solemn shadow : and his train 
Of crimson, and of azure, and of gold, 
Went floating up the zenith, tint on tint. 
And ray on ray, till all the concave caught 
His parting benediction. 

But the glow 
Faded to twilight, and dim evening sank 
In deeper shade, and there that mountain stood 
In awful state, like dread embassador [severe 

'Tween earth and heaven. Methought it frowned 
Upon the world beneath, and Ufted up 
The accusing forehead sternly toward the sky, 
To witness 'gainst its sins : and is it meet 
For thee, swoln out in cloud-capped pinnacle. 
To scorn thine own original, the dust 
That, feebly eddying on the angry winds, 
Doth sweep thy base ] Say, is it meet for thee, 
Robing thyself in mystery, to impeach 
This nether sphere, from whence thy rocky root 
Draws depth and nutriment ? 

But lo ! a star, 
The first meek herald of advancing night. 
Doth peer above thy summit, as some babe 
Might gaze with brow of timid innocence 
Over a giant's shoulder. Hail, lone star ! 
Thou friendly watcher o'er an erring world, 
Thine uncondemning glance doth aptly teach 
Of that untiring mercy, which vouchsafes 
Thee light, and man salvation. 

Not to mark 
And treasure up his follies, or recount 
Their secret record in the court of Heaven, 
Thou com'st. Methinks thy tenderness would 
With trembling mantle, his infirmities, [shroud. 
The purest natures are most pitiful ; 
But they who feel corruption strong within 
Do launch their darts most fiercely at the trace 
Of their own image, in another's breast. 
— So the wild bull, that in some mirror spies 
His own mad visage, furiously destroys 
The frail reflector. But thou, stainless star! 
Shalt stand a watchman on Creation's walls. 
While race on race their little circles mark. 
And slumber in the tomb. Still point to all. 
Who through this evening scene may wander on, 
And from yon mountain's cold magnificence 
Turn to thy milder beauty — point to all. 
The eternal love that nightly sends thee forth, 
A silent teacher of its boundless love. 



, 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



99 



THE INDIAN GIRL'S BURIAL. 

A VOICE upon the prairies, 

A cry of woman's wo, 
That mingleth with the autumn blast 

All fitfully and low ; 
It is a mother's wailing : 

Hath earth another tone 
Like that with which a mother mourns 

Her lost, her only one ! 

Pale faces gather round her. 

They mai'ked the storm swell high 
Tliat rends and wrecks the tossing soul, 

But their cold, blue eyes are dry. 
Pale faces gaze upon her. 

As the wild winds caught her moan, 
But she was an Indian mother. 

So she wept her tears alone. 

Long o'er that wasted idol 

She watched, and toiled, and prayed. 
Though every dreary dawn revealed 

Some ravage death hath made. 
Till the fleshless sinews started. 

And hope no opiate gave. 
And hoarse and hollow grew her voice, 

An echo from the grave. 

She was a gentle creature. 

Of raven eye and tress ; 
And dovelike were the tones that breathed 

Her bosom's tenderness. 
Save when some quick emotion 

The warm blood strongly sent. 
To revel in her olive cheek, 

So richly eloquent. 

I said Consumption smote her, 

And the healer's art was vain, 
But she was an Indian maiden. 

So none deplored her pain ; 
None, save that widowed mother. 

Who now. by her open tomb. 
Is writhing, like the smitten wretch 

Whom judgment marks for doom. 

Alas ! that lowly cabin. 

That bed beside the wall. 
That seat beneath the mantling vine. 

They 're lone and empty all. 
What hand shall pluck the tall green com. 

That ripeneth on the plain ? 
Since she for whom the board was spread 

Must ne'er return again. 

Rest, rest, thou Indian maiden, 

Nor let thy murmuring shade 
Grieve that those pale browed ones with scorn 

Thy burial rite surveyed ; 
There 's many a king whose funeral 

A black robed realm shall see. 
For whom no tear of grief is shed 

Like that which falls for thee. 

Yea, rest thee, forest maiden, 

Beneath thy native tree ! 
The proud may boast their Uttle day, 

Then sink to dust like thee : 



But there's many a one funeral 
With nodding plumes may be. 

Whom Nature nor affection mourn 
As here they mourn for thee. 



INDIAN NAMES. 

Ye say they all have passed away, 

That noble race and brave ; 
That their light canoes have vanished 

From off the crested wave ; 
That, mid the forests where they roamed. 

There rings no hunter's shout : 
But their name is on your waters — 

Ye may not wash it out. 

'T is where Ontario's billow 

Like Ocean's surge is curled ; 
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake 

The echo of the world ; 
Where red Missouri bringeth 

Rich tribute from the west ; 
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps 

On green Virginia's breast. 

Ye say their conelike cabins. 

That clustered o'er the vale. 
Have disappeared, as withered leaves 

Before the autumn's gale : 
But their memory liveth on your hills, 

Their baptism on your shore. 
Your everlasting rivers speak 

Their dialect of yore. 

Old Massachusetts wears it 

Within her lordly crown. 
And broad Ohio bears it 

Amid his young renown ; 
Connecticut has wreathed it 

Where her quiet foliage waves. 
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse 

Through all her ancient caves. 

Wachusett hides its Ungering voice 

Within its rocky heart. 
And Allegany graves its tone 

Throughout his lofty chart 
Monadnock, on his forehead hoar. 

Doth seal the sacred trust : 
Your mountains build their monument. 

Though ye destroy their dust. 



A BUTTERFLY ON A CHILD'S GRAVE. 

A BCTTERFLT basked on a baby's grave. 

Where a lily had chanced to grow : 
" Why art thou here, with thy gaudy dye. 
When she of the blue and sparkling eye 

Must sleep in the churchyard low 1" 
Then it lightly soared through the sunny air. 

And spoke from its shining track : 
" I was a worm till I won my wings. 
And she whom thou mourn'st, like a seraph sings • 

Wouldst thou call the blest one backl" 



100. 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



MONODY ON THE LATE DANIEL WADS- 
WORTH, ESaUtRB. 

Thou, of a noble name, 
That gave in days of old 
Shepherds to Zion's fold. 
And chiefs of power and fame. 
When Washington in times of peril drew [true — 
Forth in their country's cause the vahant and the 
Thou, who so many a lonely home didst cheer, 

Counting thy wealth a sacred trust — 
With shuddering heart the knell we hear 
That tells us thou art dust. 

Friend ! we have let thee fall 
Into the grave, and have not gathered all 
The wisdom thou didst love to pour 
From a full mind's exhaustless store: 
Ah, we were slow of heart. 
To reap the rapid moments ere their flight — 
Or thou, perchance, to us hadst taught the art 
Heaven's gifts to use aright — 

Amid infirmity and pain 

Time's golden sands to save ; 
With upright heart the truth maintain ; 
To frown on wiles the life that stain. 
Making the soul their slave ; 
To joy in all things beautiful, and trace [face. 
The slightest smile, or shade, that mantled Nature's 

Yes, we were slow of heart, and dreamed 
To see thee still at wintry tide, [beside. 

With page of knowledge spread, thy pleasant hearth 
When to thy clearer sight there gleamed 
The beckoning hand, the waiting eye. 
The smile of welcome through the sky. 
Of her who was thine angel here below, [to go. 
And unto whom 'twas meet that thou shouldst long 

Friend ! thou didst give command 
To him who dealt thy soul its hallowed bread, 
As by thy snifering bed 
He took his faithful stand. 
Not to pronounce thy praise when thou wert dead : 
So, though impulsive promptings came, 
Warm o'er his lips like rushing flame, 
He struggled and o'ercame. 

Even when, in sad array. 
From thy lone home, where summer roses twined, 
The funeral weepers held their way 
Thy sable hearse behind : 
When in the holy house, where thou so long 
Hadst worshipped with the sabbath throng. 
Thy venerated form was laid. 
While mournful dirges rose, and solemn prayers 
were made. 

Oh friend ! thou didst o'ermaster well 
The pride of wealth, and multiply 
Good deeds not done for the good word of men, 
But for Heaven's judging pen. 
And clear, omniscieut eye ; 
And surely where the "just made perfect" dwell, 
Earth's voice of highest eulogy 
Is like the bubble of the far-off sea — 

A sigh upon the grave, [wave. 

Scarce moving the frail flowers that o'er its surface 



Yet think not, friend revered. 

Oblivion o'er thy name shall sweep. 
While the fair domes that thou hast reared 

Their faithful witness keep. 
The fairy cottage in its robe of flowers — 
The classic turrets, where the stranger strays 
Amid the pencil's tints and scrolls of other days, 
And yon gray tower on Montevideo's crest. 
Where, mid Elysian haunts and bowers. 
Thou didst rejoice to see all people blest : 
These chronicle thy name — 
And ah, in many a darkened cot 
Thou hast a tear-embalmed fame 
That can not be forgot ! 

But were all dumb beside, 
The lyre that thou didst wake, the lone heart thou 
didst guide. 
In early youth, with fostering care — 
These may not in cold silence bide : 
For were it so, the stones on which we tread 
Would find a tongue to chide 

Ingratitude so dread ! 
No — till the fading gleam of memory's fires 
From the warm altar of the heart expires. 
Leave thou the much indebted free 

To speak what truth inspires, 
And fondly mourn for thee. 



ADVERTISEMENT OP A LOST DAY. 

Lost ! lost ! lost ! 

A gem of countless price. 
Cut from the living rock. 

And graved in paradise : 
Set round with three times eight 

Large diamonds, clear and bright, 
And each with sixty smaller ones, 

All changeful as the light. 

Lost — where the thoughtless throng 

In Fashion's mazes wind, 
Where trilleth Folly's song, 

Leaving a sting behind : 
Yet to my hand 'twas given 

A golden harp to buy. 
Such as the white-robed choir attune 

To deathless minstrelsy. 

Lost! lost! lost! 

I feel all search is vain ; 
That gem of countless cost 

Can ne'er be mine again : 
I offer no reward — 

For till these heart-strings sever, 
I know that Heaven-entrusted gift 

Is reft away for ever. 

But when the sea and land 

Like burning scroll have fled, 
I'll see it in His hand 

Who judgeth quick and dead. 
And when of scathe and loss 

That man can ne'er repair. 
The dread inquiry meets my soul, 

What shall it answer there 1 



LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 



101 



FAREWELL TO A RURAL RESIDENCE. 

How beautiful it stands, 

Beliind its elm tree's screen, 
With simple attic cornice crowned, 

All graceful and serene ! 
Most sweet, yet sad, it is 

Upon yon scene to gaze, 
And list its inborn melody, 

The voice of other days : 

For there, as many a year 

Its varied chart unrolled, 
I hid me in those quiet shades. 

And called the joys of old ; 
I called them, and they came 

When Temal buds appeared. 
Or where the vine clad summer bower 

Its temple roof upreared. 

Or where the o'erarching grove 

Spread forth its copses green, 
WhUe eyebright and asclepias reared 

Their untrained stalks between ; 
And the squirrel from the boughs 

His broken nuts let fall. 
And the merry, merry little birds 

Sing at his festival. 

Yon old forsaken nests 

Returning spring shall cheer. 
And thence the unfledged robin breathe 

His greeling wild and clear ; 
And from yon clustering vine. 

That wreathes the casement round. 
The humming-birds' unresting wing 

Send forth a whin-ing sound ; 

And where alternate springs 

The hlach's purple spire 
Fast by its snowy sister's side ; 

Or where, "nith wing of fire. 
The kingly oriole glancing went 

Amid the fohage rare. 
Shall many a group of children tread. 

But mine will not be there. 

Fain wovdd I know what forms 

The mastery here shall keep, 
What mother in yon nursery fair 

Rock her young babes to sleep : 
Yet blessings on the hallowed spot, 

Though here no more I stray. 
And blessings on the sti'anger babes 

Who in those halls shall play. 

Heaven bless you, too, my plants. 

And eveiy parent bird 
That here, among the woven boughs, 

Above its young hath stirred, 
I kiss your trunks, ye ancient trees, 

That often o'er my head 
The blossoms of your flowery spring 

In fragrant showers have shed. 



Thou, too, of changeful mood, 

I thank thee, sounding stream. 
That blent thine echo with my thought, 

Or woke my musing dream. 
I kneel upon the verdant turf. 

For sure my thanks are due 
To moss-cup and to clover leaf. 

That gave me draughts of dew. 

To each perennial flower. 

Old tenants of the spot. 
The broad leafed lily of the vale. 

And the meek forget-me-not ; 
To every daisy's dappled brow. 

To every violet blue. 
Thanks ! thanks ! may each returning year 

Your changeless bloom renew. 

Praise to our Father-God, 

High praise, in solemn lay, 
AMke for what his hand hath given. 

And what it takes away : 
And to some other loving heart 

May all this beauty be 
The dear retreat, the Eden home, 

That it hath been to me ! 



WIDOW AT HER DAUGHTER'S BRIDAL- 

Deat. gently thou, whose hand hath won 

The young bird fi'om its nest away. 
Where careless, 'neath a vernal sun. 

She gayly carolled, day by day ; 
The haunt is lone, the heart must grieve. 

From whence her timid wing doth soar, 
They pensive list at hush of eve. 

Yet hear her gusliing song no more. 

Deal gently with her ; thou art dear. 

Beyond what vestal lips have told. 
And, hke a lamb from fountains clear, 

She turns confiding to thy fold ; 
She, round thy sweet domestic bower 

The wreaths of changeless love shall twine, 
Watch for thy step at vesper hour. 

And blend her holiest prayer with thine. 

Deal gently thou, when, far away. 

Mid sti-anger scenes her foot shall rove. 
Nor let thy tender care decay — 

The soul of woman lives in love : 
And shouldst thou, wondering, mark a tear, 

Unconscious, from her eyelids break, 
Be pitiful, and soothe the fear 

That man's strong heart may ne'er partake. 

A mother yields her gem to thee. 

On thy true breast to sparkle rare ; 
She places 'neath thy household tree 

The idol of her fondest care : 
And by thy trust to be forgiven, 

When Judgment wakes m terror vpild. 
By all thy treasured hopes of heaven. 

Deal gently with the widow's child ! 



KATHERINE A. WARE. 



Kathekine Augtjsta Rhodes was born in 
1797 at Quincy, in Massachusetts, where her 
father was a physician. She was remarkable 
in childhood for a love of reading, and for 
a justness of taste much beyond her years. 
She wrote verses at a very early age, and a 
poem at fifteen, upon the death of her kins- 
man, Robert Treat Paine, which possessed 
sufficient merit to be included in the collec- 
tion of that author's works. In 1819 she 
was married to Mr. Charles A. Ware, of the 
Navy, and in the next few years she ap- 
peared frequently as a writer of odes for 
public occasions and as a contributor to lit- 
erary journals. Among her odes was one 
addressed to Lafayette and presented to him 
in the ceremony of his reception in Boston, 
by her eldest child, then five years old ; and 
another, in honor of Governor De Witt Clin- 
ton, which was recited at the great Canal 
Celebration in New York. 

In 1828 Mrs. Ware commenced in Boston 
the publication of a literary periodical, enti- 
tled The Bower of Taste, which was con- 
tinued several years. She subsequently re- 
sided in New York, and in 1839 went to Eu- 
rope, where she remained until her death, in 
Paris in 1843. 

A few months before she died, Mrs. Ware 
published, in London, a selection from her 
writings, under the title of The Power of the 
Passions aild other Poems. The composition 
from which the volume has its principal title 
was originally printed in the Knickerbocker 
Magazine, for April in the same year. This, 
though the longest, is scarcely the best of her 



productions, but it has passages of consider- 
able strength and boldness, and some felici- 
ties of expression. She describes a public 
dancer, as 

Moving as if her element were air. 
And music was the echo of her step ; 

and there are many other lines noticable for 
a picturesque beauty or a fine cadence. In 
other poems, also, are parts which are much 
superior to their contexts, as if written in 
moments of inspiration, and added to in la- 
borious leisure: as the following, from The 
Diamond Island, which refers to a beautiful 
place in Lake George: 

How sweet to stray along thy flowery shore. 
Where crystals sparkle in the sunny ray ; 

While the red boatman plies his silvery oar 
To the wild measure of some rustic lay ! 

and these lines, from an allusion to Athens : 
Views the broad stadium where the gymnic art 
Nerved the young arm and energized the heart. 

or this apostrophe to sculpture, from Musings 
in St. James's Cemetery : 

Sculpture, oh, what a triumph o'er the grave 
Hath thy proud art ! thy powerful hand can save 
From the destroyer's grasp the noble form. 
As if the spirit dwelt, still thrilling, warm. 
In every line and feature of the face, 
The air majestic, and the simple grace 
Of flowing robes, which shade, but not conceal, 
All that the classic chisel would reveal. 

These inequalities are characteristic of the 
larger number of Mrs. Ware's poems, but 
there are in her works some pieces marked 
by a sustained elegance, and deserving of 
praise for their fancy and feeling as well as 
for an artist-like finish. 



LOSS OF THE FIRST-BORN. 

I SAW a pale young mother bending o'er 

Her first-born hope. Its soft blue eyes were closed, 
Not in the balmy dream of downy rest : 

In Death's embrace the shrouded babe reposed ; 
It slept the dreamless sleep that wakes no more. 

A low sigh struggled m her heaving breast, 
But yet she wept not ; hers was the deep grief 

The heart, in its dark desolation, feels; 
Which breathes not in impassioned accents wild, 



But slowly the warm pulse of life congeals ; 
A grief which from the world seeks no relief — 

A mother's son-ow o'er her first-bom child. 
She gazed upon it with a steadfast eye, [thee !" 

Which seemed to say, " Oh, would I were with 
As if her every earthly hope were fled 

With that departed cherub. Even he — [sigh 
Her young heart's choice, who breathed a father's 

Of bitter anguish o'er the unconscious dead — 
Felt not, while weeping by its funeral bier. 
One pang so deep as hers, who shed no tear. 
102 



KATHERINE A. WARE. 



103 



MADNESS. 

I 'vE seen the wreck of loveliest things : I 've wept 

O'er youthful Beauty in her snowy shroud, 
All cold and pale, as when the moon liath slept 

In the white foldings of a wintry cloud 

I 've seen the wreck of glorious things : I 've sighed 

O'er sculptured temples in prostration laid ; 
Towers which the blast of ages had defied, 

Now mouldering beneath the ivy's shade. 
Yet oh ! there is a scene of deeper wo. 

To which the soul can never be resigned ; 
'T is Phrensy's triumph. Reason's overthrow — • 

The ruined structui*e of the human mind ! 
Yes ! 't is a sight of paralyzing dread, 

To mark the rolling of the maniac's eye 
From which the spark of intellect hath fled — 

The laugh convulsive, and the deep-drawn sigh ; 
To see Ambition, with his moonlight helm, 

Armed with the fancied panoply of war. 
The mimic sovereign of a powerful realm^ 

His shield a shadow, and his spear a straw ; 
To see pale Beauty raise her dewy eyes. 

Toss her white arms, and beckon things of air. 
As if she held communion with the skies, 

And all she loved and all she sought were there ; 
To list the warring of unearthly sounds, 

Which wildly rise, like Ocean's distant swell. 
Or spirits shrieking o'er enchanted grounds. 

Forth rushing from dark Magic's secret cell. 
Oh, never, never may such fate be mine ! 

I 'd rather dwell in earth's remotest cave. 
So I my spirit calmly might resign 

To Him who Reason's glorious blessing gave. 



A NEW-YEAR WISH. 

TO A CHILD AGED FIVE YEARS. 

Dear one, while bending o'er thy couch of rest, 

I 've looked on thee as thou wert calmly sleeping, 
And wished — Oh, couldst thou ever be as blest 

As now, when haply all thy cause of weeping 
Is for a truant bird, or faded rose ! 

Though these light giiefs call forth the ready tear, 
They cast no shadow o'er thy soft repose — 

No trace of care or sorrow lingers here. 
With rosy cheek upon the pillow prest, 

To me thou seem'st a cherub pure and fair. 
With thy sweet smile and gently heaving breast. 

And the bright ringlets of thy clustering hair. 
What shall I vrish thee, little one 1 Smile on 

Thro' cliildhood's morn — thro' life's gay spring — 
For oh, too soon will those bright hours be gone ! — 

In youth time flies upon a silken wing. 
May thy young mind, beneath the bland control 

Of education, lasting worth acquire ; 
May Virtue stamp her signet on thy soul. 

Direct thy steps, and eveiy thought inspire ! 
Thy parents' earliest hope — be it their care 

To guide thee through youth's path of shade and 
flowers. 
And teach thee to avoid false pleasure's snare — 

Be thine, to smile upon their evening hours. 



MARKS OF TIME. 

Ax infant boy was playing among flowers - 
Old Time, that unbribed register of hours. 
Came hobbling on, but smoothed his wrinkled face, 
To mark the artless joy and blooming grace 
Of the young cherub, on whose cheek so fair 
He smiled, and left a rosy dimple there. 

Next Boyhood followed, with his shout of glee, 
Elastic step, and spirit wild and free 
As the young fawn that scales the mountain height, 
Or new-fledged eaglet in his sunward flight : 
Time cast a glance upon the careless boy. 
Who frolicked onward with a bound of joy. [eye 

Then Youth came forward : his bright-glancing 
Seemed a reflection of the cloudless sky ! 
The dawn of passion, in its pmxst glow. 
Crimsoned his cheek, and beaiued upon his brow, 
Giving expression to his blooming face. 
And to his fragile form a manly grace ; 
His voice was harmony, his speech was truth — 
Time lightly laid his hand upon the youth. 

Manhood next followed, in the sunny prime 
Of life's meridian bloom : all the sublime 
And beautiful of nature met his view. 
Brightened by Hope, whose radiant pencil drew 
The rich perspective of a scene as fair 
As that which smiled on Eden's sinless pair ; 
Love, fame, and glory, with alternate sway. 
Thrilled his warm heart, and with electric ray 
Illumed his eve ; yet still a shade of care. 
Like a Ught cloud that floats in summer air. 
Would shed at times a transitory gloom. 
But shadowed not one grace of manly bloom. 
Time sighed, as on his polished brow he wrought 
The first impressive lines of care and thought. 

Man in his grave maturity came next ; 
A bold review of life, from the broad text 
Of Nature's ample volume ! He had scanned 
Her varied page, and a high course had planned ; 
Humbled ambition, wealth's deceitful smile. 
The loss of friends, disease, and mental toil, 
Had blanched his cheek and dimmed his ardent eye. 
But spared his noble spirit's energy ! 
God's proudest stamp of intellectual grace 
Still shone unclouded on his careworn face ! 
On his high brow still sate the firm resolve 
Of judgment deep, whose issue might involve 
A nation's fate. Yet thoughts of milder glow 
Would oft, like sunbeams o'er a mount of snow. 
Upon his cheek their genial influence cast. 
While musing o'er the bright or shadowy past : 
Time, as he marked his noblest victim, shed 
The frost of years upon his honored head. 

Last came, with trembling limbs and bending 
form. 
Like the old oak scathed by the wintry storm, 
Man, in the closing stage of human life — • 
Nigh passed his every scene of peace or strife. 
Reason's proud triumph. Passion's wild control. 
No more dispute for mastery o'er his soul , 
As rest the billows on the sea-beat shore, 
The war of rivalry is heard no more ; 
Faith's steady light alone illumes his eye, 
For Time is pointing to Eternity ! 



JANE L. GRAY. 



Mrs. J. L. Gray is a daughter of William 
Lewers, Esquire, of Castle Clajmey, in the 
north of Ireland. She was educated at the 
celebrated Moravian seminary of Gracehill, 
near Belfast, was married at an early age, 
and has resided nearly all her lifetime at Eas- 
ton, in Pennsylvania, where her husband, the 
Kev. John Gray, D. D., is pastor of the First 
Presbyterian Church. In this beautiful, ro- 
mantic, and classical spot — the veritable 
" Forks of the Delaware," consecrated by the 
labors of Brainard, and celebrated in poetry 
and romance as in history — Mrs. Gray has 
written all her pieces which have been given 
to the public. Her life has been one of re- 



tiring, domestic quietude, such as Christian 
women spend in the midst of a numerous 
family to whom they are devoted with ma- 
ternal solicitude. Her Sabbath Reminiscen- 
ces are descriptive of real scenes and events 
connected with the church of which her fa- 
ther was an elder. The poem entitled Morn, 
having been attributed by some reviewer to 
Mr. Montgomery, that poet observes, in a 
published letter, that the author of the mis- 
take " did him honor." It is certainly a fine 
poem, though scarcely equal, perhaps, to 
some pieces which Mrs. Gray has written 
from the more independent suggestions of 
her own mind. 



TWO HUNDRED YEAKS AGO. 

AN ODE, 

WrittPii Tor the bi-centennial celebration of the illii.-trinus "Weaniinster 
Assembly of Divines, by wliom the standards of tlje Presbyterian 
Cliiircli were formed- 



Two hundred years, two hundred years, our bark 
o'er biftowy seas 

Has onward kept her steady course, through hur- 
ricane and breeze ; 

Her Captain was the Mighty One, she braved the 
stormy foe, 

And still he guides who guided her two hundred 
years ago ! 

Her chart was God's unerring word, by which 

her course to steer ; 
Her helmsman was the risen Lord, a helper ever 

near ;^ 
Though many a beauteous boat has sunk the 

treacherous waves below. 
Yet ours is sound as she was built, two hundred 

years ago ! 

The wind that fdled her swelhng sheet from many 

a point has blown, 
Still urging her unchanging course, through shoals 

and breakers, on — 
Hor fluttering pennant still the same, whatever 

breeze might blow — 
It pointed, as it does, to heaven, two hundred 

yeai's ago ! 

When first our gallant ship was launched, although 

her hands were few. 
Yet dauntless was each bosom found, and every 

heart was ti-ne ; 
And still, though in her mighty hull unnumbered 

bosoms glow, 



Her crew is faithful as it was two hundred years 
ago! 

True, some have left this noble craft, to sail the 

seas alone. 
And made them, in their hour of pride, a vessel 

of their own ; 
Ah me ! when clouds portentous rise, when threat- 

eniiig tempests blow. 
They '11 wish for that old vessel built two hundred 

years ago ! 

For onward rides our gallant bark, with all her 
canvass set. 

In many a nation still unluiown to plant her 
standard yet; 

Her flag shall float where'er the breeze of Free- 
dom's breath shall blow. 

And millions bless the boat that sailed two hun- 
dred years ago ! 

On Scotia's coast, in days of yore, she lay almost 
a wreck — 

Her mainmast gone, her rigging torn, the boarders 
on her deck ! 

There Cameron, Cargill, Cochran, fell ; there Ren- 
wick's blood did flow. 

Defending our good vessel built two hundred years 
ago! 

Ah ! many a martyr's blood was shed — we may 

not name them all — ■ 
They tore the peasant from his hut, the noble from 

his hall ; 
Then, brave Argyle, thy father's blood for faith did 

freely flow : 
And pure tlie stream, as was the fount, two htui- 

dred years ago ! 

104 



JANE L. GRAY. 



105 



Yet onward still our vessel pressed, and weathered 
out the gale ; 

She cleared the wreck, and spliced the mast, and 
mended every sail, 

And swifter, stancher, mightier far, upon her cruise 
did go — 

Strong hands and gallant hearts had she, two hun- 
dred years ago ! 

And see her now — on her beam ends cast, beneath 
a northwest storm : 

Heave overboard the very bread, to keep the ship 
trom harm ! — 

She rights ! she rides ! — hark ! how they cheer — 
" All's well, above, be'ow !" 

She 's tight as when she left the stocks, two hun- 
dred years ago ! 

True to that guiding star which led to Israel's cra- 
dled hope, 

Her steady needle pointeth yet to Calvary's bloody 
top! 

Yes, there she floats, that good old ship, from mast 
to keel below. 

Sea-worthy still, as erst she was, two hundred years 
ago! 

Not unto us, not unto us, be praise or glory 
given. 

But unto Him who watch and ward hath kept for 
her in heaven ; 

Who quelled the whirlwind in its vrrath, bade tem- 
pests cease to blow — 

That God who launched our vessel forth, two hrai- 
dred years ago ! 

Then onward speed thee, brave old bark, speed 

onward in thy pride. 
O'er sunny seas and billows dark, Jehovah still 

thy guide ; 
And sacred be each plank and spar, unchanged by 

friend or foe. 
Just as she left Old Westminster, two hundred 

years ago ! 



SABBATH REMINISCENCES. 

I HEMEMBEB, I remember, when sabbath morning 
rose. 

We changed, for garments neat and clean, our soiled 
week-day clothes ; 

And yet no gaudy finery, nor brooch nor jewel 
rare, 

Buthands and faces looking bright, and smoothly- 
parted hair. 

'T was not the decking of the head, my father used 
to say, 

But careful clothing of the heart, that graced that 
holy day — • 

'T was not the bonnet nor the dress ; and I believed 
it true ; 

But these were very simple times, and I was sim- 
ple too. 

I remember, I remember, the parlor where we 
met; 

Its papered wall, its polished floor, and mantle black 
as jet ; 



'T was there we raised our morning hymn, melo- 
dious, sweet, and clear, 

And joined in prayer with that loved voice which 
we no more may hear. 

Our morning sacrifice thus made, then to the house 

of God 
How solemnly, and silently, and cheerfally, we 

trod !— 
I see e'en now its low, thatched roof, its floor of 

trodden clay. 
And our old pastor's timeworn face, and wig of 

silver gray. 

I remember, I remember, how hushed and mute we 

were. 
While he led our spirits up to God in heartfelt, 

melting prayer ; 
To grace his action or his voice, no studied charm 

was lent : 
Pure, fervent, glowing from the heart, so to the heart 

it went. 

Then came the sermon, long and quaint, but full 

of gospel truth ; 
Ah me ! I was no judge of that, for I was then in 

youth ; 
But I have heard my father say, and well my father 

knew. 
In it was meat for full-grown men, and milk for 

children too. 

I remember, I remember, as 'twere but yesterday, 
The psalms in Rouse's Version sung, a rude but 

lovely lay ; 
Nor yet though Fashion's hand has tried to train 

my wayward ear, 
Can I find aught in modem verse so holy or so 

dear! 

And well do I remember, too, our old preceptor's 
face, 

As he read out and sung the line with patiiarchal 
gi-ace ; 

Though rudely rustic was the sound, I 'm sure that 
God was praised 

When David's words to David's tune* five hun- 
dred voices raised ! 

I remember, I remember, the morning sermon 
done. 

An hour of intermission came — ^we wandered in 
the sun ; 

How hoar)' farmers sat them down upon the daisy 
sod. 

And talked of bounteous Nature's stores, and Na- 
ture's bounteous God ; — 

And matrons talked, as matrons will, of sickness 
and of health — 

Of births, and deaths, and marriages, of poverty 
and wealth ; 

And youths and maidens stole apart, within the 
shady grove, 

And whispered 'neath its spreading boughs per- 
chance some tale of love ! 



* St. David's was one of the few tunes used ty the con- 
gregation to which I have allusion. 



106 



JANE L. GRAY. 



I remember, I remember, how in the ehurchyard 

lone 
I 've stolen away and sat me down beside the rude 

gravestone, 
Or read the names of those who slept beneath the 

clay-cold clod, 
And thought of spirits glittering bright before the 

throne of God ! 

Or where the little rivulets danced sportively and 

bright. 
Receiving on its Umpid breast the sun's meridian 

light, 
I've wandered forth, and thought if hearts were 

pure like this sweet sti-eam, 
How fair to heaven they might reflect heaven's 

uncreated beam ! 

I remember, I remember, the second sermon o'er. 
We turned our faces once again to our paternal 

door; 
And round the well-filled, ample board sat no re- 
luctant guest. 
For exercise gave appetite, and loved ones shared 

the feast ! 
Then, ere the sunset hour arrived, as we were 

wont to do, 
The catechism's well conned page, we said it 

through and through ; 
And childhood's faltering tongue was heard to lisp 

the holy word, 
And older voices read aloud the message of the 

Lord. 
Away back in those days of yore — perhaps the 

fault was mine — 
I used to think the sabbath day, dear Lord, was 

wholly thine ; 
When it behooved to keep the heart and bridle 

fast the tongue : 
But these were very simple times, and I was very 

young. 
The world has grown much older since these sun- 
bright sabbath days — 
The world has grown much older since, and she 

has changed her ways : 
Some say that she has wiser grown ; ah me ! it 

may bg true, 
As wisdom comes by length of years, but so does 

dotage, too. 

Oh ! happy, happy years of truth, how beautiful, 
how fair. 

To Memory's reti'ospective eye, your trodden path- 
ways are ! 

The tliorns forgot^ — remembered still the fragrance 
and the flowers — 

The loved companions of my youth, and sunny 
sabbath hours ! — ■ 

And onward, onward, onward still, successive sab- 
baths come, 

As guides to lead us on the road to our eternal 
home ; 

Or hke the visioned ladder once to slumbering 
Jacob given. 

From heaven descending to the earth, lead back 
from earth to heaven ! 



MORN. 

IN IMITATION OF "NIGHT," BY JAMES MONTGOMEKY 

MonN is the time to wake — 

The eyelids to unclose — 
Spring from the arms of Sleep, and break 

The fetters of repose ; 
Walk at the dewy dawn abroad, 
And hold sweet fellowship with God. 

Mom is the time to pray: 

How lovely and how meet 
To send our earliest thoughts away 

Up to the mercy seat ! 
Embassadors, for us to claim 
A blessing in our Master's name. 
Morn is the time to sing : 

How charming 'tis to hear 
The mingling notes of Nature ring 

In the delighted ear ! 
And with that swelling anthem raise 
The soul's fresli matin song of praise ! 

Morn is the time to sow 

The seeds of heavenly truth. 
While balmy breezes softly blow 

Upon the soil of youth ; 
And look to thee, nor look in vain. 
Our God, for sunshine and for rain. 

Morn is the time to love : 
As tendrils of the vine, 
The young affections fondly rove. 

And seek them where to twine. 
Around thyself, in thine embrace. 
Lord, let them find their resting place. 

MoiTi is the time to shine. 

When skies are clear and blue — 

Reflect the rays of light divine 
As morning dewdrops do : 

Like early stars, be early bright. 

And melt away like them in light. 

Mom is the time to weep 

O'er morning hours misspent: 
Alas ! how oft from peaceful sleep 

On folly madly bent. 
We 've left the strait and narrow road, 
And wandered from our guardian God ! 
Morn is the time to think, 

While thoughts are fresh and free, 
Of Ufe just balanced on the brink 

Of dark eternity ! 
And ask our souls if they are meet 
To stand before the judgment seat. 
Mom is the time to die. 

Just at the dawn of day — 
When stars are fading in the sky, 

To fade like them away : 
But lost in light more brilliant far 
Than ever merged the morning star. 
Morn is the time to rise. 

The resurrection mom — 
Upspringing to the glorious skies. 

On new-found pinions borne, 
To meet a Savior's smile divine : 
Be such ecstatic rising mine ! 







SOPHIA L. LITTLE. 


Mrs. Little was born at Newport, in the 
year 1799. She is the second daughter of the 
late eminent jurist and statesman Asher Rob- 
bing, who for fourteen years was a senator 
of the state of Rhode IslaLd in the national 
Congress. She inherits much of her father's 
genius and love of letters, and she displayed 
from early childhood, under the advantages 
of his judicious culture, the strong imagina- 
tion, ready fancy, and chastened taste, which 
in him were united to an uncommon capaci- 
ty for analysis and a vigorous and far reach- 
ing logic. 

In 1824 she was married to Mr. William 
Little, junior, of Boston, a gentleman of con- 
genial tastes, whose principles of criticism, 
more severe and exacting than her own, 
contributed very much to the discipline and 
growth of her poetical abilities. She had 
occasionally written verses for the amuse- 
ment of her friends, and had published in the 


journals a few pieces, under the signature 
of RowENA, previous to 1828, when her po- 
em entitled "Thanksgiving appeared in The 
Token, an annual souvenir edited for many 
years by Mr. S. G. Goodrich. Thanksgiving 
is a natural and striking picture of the New 
England autumn festival : it has an odor of 
nationality about it ; and it will live, both 
for its fidelity and its felicity, as one of the 
finest memorials of an institution which in 
later years has lost much of its primitive 
character and attractiveness. 

Besides many shorter poems which have 
appeared in periodicals, Mrs. Little has since 
published : in 1839, The Last Days of Jesus ; 
in 1842, The Annunciation and Birth of Je- 
sus, and The Resurrection ; and in 1844, The 
Betrothed, and The Branded Hand. In 1843 
she also published a small work in prose, 
entitled The Pilgrim's Progress in the Last 
Days, in imitation of Bunyan. 


THE POET. 

He is happy : not that fame 
Giveth him a glorious name ; 
For the world's applause is vain. 
Lost and won with little pain ; 
But a sense is in his spirit 
Which no vulgar minds inherit — 
A second sight of soul which sees 
Into Nature's mysteries. 

Place him by the ocean's side, 
When the waters dash with pride : 
With their wild and awful roll 
Deep communes his lifted soul. 
Now let the sudden tempest come 
From its cloudy eastern home ; 
Let the thunder's fearful shocks 
Break among the dark, rough rocks, 
And lightning, as the waves aspire. 
Crown him with a wreath of fire ; 
Let the wind with sullen breath 
Seem to breathe a dirge of death : 
Thou mayst feel thy cheek turn pale ; 
But he that looks within the veil. 
The bard, high priest at Nature's shrine, 
Trembles with a warmth divine. 
His heaving breast, his kindling eye. 
His brow's expanded majesty, 


Show that the sphit of his thought 
Hath Nature's inspiration caught. 

Now place him in a gentle scene, 
'Neath an autumn sky serene ; 
Let some hamlet skirt his way, 
Gleaming in the fading day ; 
Let him hear the distant low 
Of the herds that homeward go ; 
Let him catch, as o'er it floats. 
The music of the robin's notes. 
As softly sinks upon its nest 
He, of birds the kindliest ; 
Let him catch ftom yonder nook 
The murmur of the minstrel brook ; 
The stones that fain would check its way 
It leapeth o'er with purpose gay, 
Or only lingereth for a time, 
To draw from them a merrier chime ; 
E'en as a gay and gentle mind. 
Though rough breaks in life it find, 
Passeth by as 'twere not so, 
Or draws sweet uses out of wo ; 
The scene doth on his soul impress 
Its glory and its loveliness. 

Now place him in some festal hall. 
The merry band of minstrels call. 
Banish sorrow, pain, and care. 
Let graceful, sprightly youth be there ; 
307 



108 



SOPHIA L. LITTLE. 



Beauty, with her jewelled zone 
And sparkling drapery round her thrown ; 
Beauty, who surest aims her glance 
When the free motion of tlie dance 
All her varied charms hath stirred, 
As the plumage of a bird 
Shows brightest when in air he springs, 
Spreading forth his sunny wings. 
Place the bard in scenes like this. 
E'en here he knows no common bliss. 
Beautj', mirth, and music, twined. 
Shed bland witchery o'er his mind. 
Yet not alone these charm his eyes — 
In fancy other sights he spies ; 
The ancient feats of chivalry, 
Of war's and beauty's rivalry. 

That hall becomes an open space, 
Where knights contend for ladies' grace. 
He sees a creature far more fair 
Than any forms around him are ; 
One love glance of her radiant eyes. 
The boon for which the valiant dies. 
He sees the armored knights advance, 
He hears the shiver of the lance. 
And then the shout when tourney's done 
That greets the conquering champion. 
While, kneeling at his lady's feet, 
The victor's heart doth scarcely beat. 
As, blushing like a newborn rose. 
His chosen queen the prize bestows. 

But would you know the season when 
He triumphs most o'er other men. 
See him when heart, pulse, and brain, . 
Are bound in Love's mysterious chain. 
Behold him then beside the maid : 
There 's not one curl hath thrown its shade 
In vain upon that bosom's swell ; 
All are secrets of the spell 
That holds the visionary boy 
Breathless in his trance of joy. 
And yet no definite desire 
Does that strong sense of bliss inspire ; 
But sweetly vague and undefined 
The feeling that enthralls his mind — 
An indistinct, deep dream of heaven, 
Her melting, shadowy eye hath given. 

These the poet's pleasures are ; 
These the dull world can not share ; 
These make fame so poor a prize 
In his heaven enlightened eyes. 
What is poetry but this — 
A glimpse of our lost state of bliss ; 
A noble reaching of the mind 
For that for which it was designed — - 
A sign to lofty spirits given. 
To show them they were born for heaven ; 
Light from above, quenched when it falls 
Where the gross earth with darkness palls 
The fallen soul content to be 
Wed to its sad degeneracy ; 
But when, like light on crystal streams, 
On a pure mind its effluence beams. 
How brightly in such sphit lies 
An image of the far off skies ! 



THANKSGIVING. 

It is thanksgiving morn — 'tis cold and clear ; 
The bells for church ring forth a merry sound ; 
The maidens, in their gaudy winter gear. 
Rival the many tinted woods around ; 
The rosy children skip along the ground, 
Save where the matron reins their eager pace. 
Pointing to him who with a look profound 
Moves with his ' people' toward the sacred place 
Where duly he bestows the manna crumbs of 
grace. 

Of the deep learning in the schools of yore 
The reverend pastor hath a golden stock : 
Yet, with a vain display of useless lore. 
Or sapless doctrine, never wilt he mock 
The better cravings of his simple flock ; 
But faithfully their humble shepherd guides 
Where streams eternal gush firom Calvary's rock ; 
For well he knows, not Learning's purest tides 
Can quench the immortal thirst that in the soul 
abides. 

The anthem swells ; the heart's high thanks ai'e 

given: 
Then, mildly as the dews on Hermon fall. 
Begins the holy minister of heaven. 
And though not his the burning zeal of Paul, 
Yet a persuasive power is in his call : 
So earnest, though so kindly, is his mood. 
So tenderly he longs to save them all. 
No bird more fondly flutters o'er her brood 
AVhen the dark vulture screams above their native 
wood. 

" For all His bounties, dearest charge," he cries, 
" Your hearts are the best thanks ; no more refrain ; 
Your yielded hearts he asks iii sacrifice. 
Almighty Lover ! shalt thou love in vain, 
And vainly woo thy wanderers home again 1 
How thy soft mercy with the sinner pleads ! 
Behold ! fhy harvest loads the ample plain ; 
And the same goodness lives in all thy deeds. 
From the least drop of ram, to those that Jesus 
bleeds." 

Much more he spake, with growing ardor fired : 
Oh, that my lay were worthy to record 
The moving eloquence his theme inspired ! 
For like a free and copious stream, outpoured 
His love to man and man's indulgent lord. 
All were subdued ; the stoutest, sternest men. 
Heart melted, hung on ever,- precious word : 
And as he uttered forth his full amen, 
A thousand mmgling sobs reechoed it again. 

Behold that ancient house on yonder lawn, 
Close by whose rustic porch an elm is seen : 
Lo ! now has past the service of the morn ; 
A joyous group are hastening o'er the green, 
Led by an agod sire of gracious mien. 
Whose gay descendants are all met to hold 
Their glad thanksgiving in that S3'lvan scene. 
That once enclosed them in one happy fold. 
Ere waves of time and change had o'er them 
rolled. 



SOPHIA L. LITTLE. 



109 



The hospitable doors are open thrown ; 
The bright wooJ fire burns cheerly in the hall; 
And, gatherinjj in, a busy hum makes known 
The spirit of fi'ee mirth that moves them all. 
There, a youth hears a lovely cousin's call, 
And flies alertly to unclasp the cloak; 
And she, the while, with merry laugh lets fall 
Upon his awkwardness some lively joke. 
Not pitj-ing the blush her bantering has woke. 

And there the grandam sits, in placid ease, 
A gentle brightness o'er her features spread : 
Her children's children cluster round her knees, 
Or on her bosom fondly rest their head. 
Oh, happy sight, to see such blossoms shed 
Their sweet young fragrance o'er such aged tree ! 
How vain to say, that, when short youth basiled, 
Our dearest of enjoyments cease to be. 
When hoary eld is loved but the raore tenderly ! 

And there the manly farmers scan the news ; 
(Strong is their sense, though plain the garb it 

wears ;) 
Or, while their pipes a lulling smoke diffuse, 
They look important from their elbow chairs, 
And gravely ponder on the nation's cares. 
The matrons of the morning sermon speak, 
And each its passing excellence declares ; 
While tears of pious rapture, pure and meek, 
Coiuse in soft beauty down the Christian mother's 

cheek. 

Then, just at one, the full thanksgiving feast, 
Rich with the bounties of the closing year. 
Is spread ; and, from the greatest to the least, 
All crowd the table, and enjoy the cheer. 
The list of dainties will not now appear — 
Save one I can not pass unheeded by. 
One dish, already to the muses dear. 
One dish, that wakens Memory's longing sigh — 
The genuine far famed Yankee pmnpkin pie ! 

Who e'er has seen thee in thy flaky crust 
Display the yellow richness of thy breast, 
But, as the sight awoke his keenest gust. 
Has owned thee of all cates the choicest, best? 
Ambrosia were a fool, to thee compared. 
Even by the ruby hand of Hebe drest — 
Thee, pumpkin pie, by country maids prepared. 
With their white, rounded arms above the elbow 
oared! 

Now to the kitchen come a vagrant train. 
The plenteous fragments of the feast to share. 
The old lame fiddler wakes a merry strain. 
For his mulled cider and his pleasant fare — 
Reclming in that ancient wicker chair. 
A veteran soldier he, of those proud times 
When first our Freedom's banner kissed the air : 
His battles oft he sings in untaught rhymes. 
When wakenmg Memory his aged heart sublimes. 

But who is this, whose scarlet cloak has knovm 
Full oft the pelting of the winter storm ? 
Through its fringed hood a strong, wild face is 

shown — 
Tall, gaunt, and bent with years, the beldame's 

form: 



There 's none of all these youth, with vigor warm, 
Who dare by slightest word her anger stir. 
So dark the frown that does her face deform, 
That half the frighted villagers aver 
The very de'il himself incarnate is in her ! 

Yet now the sybil wears her mildest mood ; 
And round her see the anxious, silent band. 
Falls fi-om her straggling locks the antique hood, 
As close she peers in that fair maiden's hand. 
Who scai'ce the struggles in her heart can stand ; 
Affection's strength hath made her nature weak ; 
She of her lovely looks hath lost command : 
The fleckered red and white within her cheek — 
Oh, all her love doth there most eloquently speak ! 

Thy doting faith, fond maid, may envied be, 
And half excused the superstitious art. 
Now% when the sybil's mystic words to thee 
The happier fortunes of thy love impart, 
Thrilling thy soul in its most vital part. 
How does the throb of inward ecstasy 
Send the luxmiant blushes from thy heart 
All o'er thy varj'ing cheek, like some clear sea 
Where the red morrung glow falls full but trem- 
blingly ! 

'Tis evening, and the rural balls begin : 
The fairy call of music all obey ; 
The circles round domestic hearths grow thin ; 
All, at the joyful signal, hie away 
To yonder hall, with hghts and garlands gay. 
There, with elastic step, young belles are seen 
Entering, all conscious of their coming sway : 
Not oft their fancies underrate, I ween. 
The spoils and glories of this festal scene. 

New England's daughters need not envy those 
Who in a monarch's court their jewels wear : 
More lovely they, when but a simple rose 
Glows through the golden clusters of their hair. 
Could light of diamonds make her look more fair. 
Who moves in beauty through the mazy dance, 
With buoyant feet that seem to sldm the air. 
And eyes that speak, in each impassioned glance, 
The poetry of youth, love's sweet and short ro- 
mance 1 

He thinks not so, that young enamored boy, 
Who through the whirls her graceful steps doth 

guide, 
While his heart swells with the deep pulse of joy. 
Oh, no : by Nature taught, unlearned in pride. 
He sees her in her loveliness arrayed, 
AH blushing for the love she can not hide, 
And feels that gaudy Art could only shade 
The brightness Nature gave to his unrivalled 

maid. 
Gay bands, move on ; your draught of pleasure 
I love to hsten to your joyous din ; [quafT; 

The lad's light joke, the maiden's mellow laugh, 
And the brisk music of the violin. 
How blithe to see the sprightly dance begin ! 
Entwining hands, they seem to float along. 
With native rustic grace that well might win 
The happiest praises of a sweeter song. 
From a more gifted lyre than doth to me belong. 



110 



LXDIA M. CHILD. 



While these enjoy the mirth that suits their years, 
Round the home fires tlieir peaceful elders meet. 
A gentler mirth their friendly converse cheers ; 
And yet, though calm their pleasures, they are 

sweet : 
Through the cold shadows of the autumn day 
Oft breaks the sunshine with as genial heat 
As o'er the soft and sapphire skies of May, 
Though Nature then be young and exquisitely gay. 

On the white wings of peace their days have flown, 
Nor wholly were they thralled by earthly cares ; 
Bui from their hearts to Heaven's paternal throne 
Arose the daily incense of their prayers. 
And now, as low the sun of being wears, 



The God to whom their morning vows were paid, 
Each grateful offering in remembrance bears ; 
And cheering beams of mercy are displayed. 
To gild with heavenly hopes their evening's pensive 



But now, farewell to thee, Thanksgiving Day ! 
Thou angel of the year ! one bounteous hand 
The horn of deep abundance doth display, 
Raining its rich profusion o'er the land ; 
The other arm, outstretched with gesture grand, 
Pointing its upraised finger to the sky, 
Doth the warm tribute of our thanks demand 
For him, the Father God, who from on high 
Sheds gleams of purest joy o'er man's dark destiny. 



LYDIA M. CHILD. 



Miss Francis, now Mrs. David L. Child, 
is a native of Massachusetts, and a sister of 
the Rev. Dr. Conyers Francis, of Harvard 
University. She is one of the most able and 
brilliant authors of the country, as is shown 
by her Philothea, Letters from New York, 



and other works, of which an account is 
given in the Prose Writers of America. Most 
of her poems are contained in a small vol- 
ume which she published many years ago, 
under the title of The Coronal. She resides 
in New York. 



MARIUS. 

SUGGESTED EY A PAINTING BY VANDDELYN, OF MA- 
RIUS SEATED AMONG THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. 

Pillars are falling at thy feet. 

Fanes quiver in the air, 
A prostrate city is Ihy seat — 

And thou alone art there. 

No change conies o'er thy noble brow. 

Though ruin is around thee — 
Thine eye-beam burns as proudly now, 

As when the laurel crowned thee. 

It can not bend thy lofty soul. 
Though fiiends and fame depart ; 

The car of fj^te may o'er thee roll. 
Nor crush thy Roman heart. 

And Genius hath electric power. 

Which earth can never tame ; 
Bright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lower — 

Its flash is still the same. 

The dreams we loved in early life 

May melt like mist away ; 
High thoughts may seem, mid passion's strife. 

Like Carthage in decay. 
And proud hopes in the human heart 

May be to ruin hurled. 
Like mouldering monuments of art 

Heaped on a sleeping world. 
Yet there is something will not die. 

Where life hath once been fair : 
Some towering thoughts still rear on high, 

Some Roman lingers there ! 



LINES, 

ON HEARING A BOY MOCK THE SOUND OF A CLOCK 
IN A CHURCH-STEEPLE, AS IT RUNG AT MIDDAY. 

At, ring thy shout to the merry hours : 

Well may ye part in glee ; 
From their sunny wings they scatter flowers. 

And, laughing, look on thee. 

Thy thrilling voice has started tears : 

It brings to mind the day 
When I chased butterflies and years-^ 

And both flew fast away. 

Then my glad thoughts were few and ftee ; 

They came but to depart, 
And did not ask where heaven could be — 

'Twas in my Uttle heart. 

I since have sought the meteor crown, 

Which fame bestows on men ; 
How gladly would I throw it down. 

To be so gay again ! 

But youthful joy has gone away : 

In vain 't is now pursued ; 
Such rainbow glories only stay 

Around the simple good. 

I know too much, to be as blessed 

As when I was like thee ; 
My spirit, reasoned into rest. 

Has lost its buoyancy. 

Yet still I love the winged hours : 

We often part in glee — 
And sometimes, too, are fragrant flowers 

Their farewell gifts to me. 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



LonisA Jane Parx, now Mrs. Hall, was 
born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, on the 
seventli of February, 1802. Her father was 
a physician, but when she was about two 
years of age he abandoned his profession to 
remove to Boston, for the purpose of editing 
The Repertory, a leading political journal of 
the Federal party. In a few years he be- 
came weary of the conflict, then waged with 
so much violence, and, urged to do so by some 
of the most intelligent citizens, opened a 
school for young women, in which a more 
thorough education might be received than 
was common in that period. His daugh- 
ter was then in her tenth year ; he had al- 
ready made her familiar with Milton and 
Shakspere ; and it was partly with the view 
of executing his plans for her education that 
he decided to become a public teacher. His 
school was opened in the spring of 1811, and 
for twenty years was eminently successful. 
His daughter, except when her studies were 
interrupted by ill health, was eight years his 
pupil. She early showed symptoms of a sus- 
ceptible constitution, and her experience, of 
a spirit ever prompting action, and a body 
incapable of fulfilling its commands without 
suffering, has been perpetual. 

Her writings show that her mind was wise- 
ly as well as carefully disciplined, and prob- 
ably her habits of composition were formed 
at an early period. She published nothing, 
however, until she was twenty years of age, 
and then anonymously, in the Literary Ga- 
zette, and the newspapers. She wrote Mir- 
iam only for amusement, as she did many 
little poems and tales which she destroyed. 
The first half of this drama, written in 1825, 
was read at a small literary party in Boston. 
The author, not being known, was present, 
and was encouraged by the remarks it occa- 
sioned to finish it in the following summer. 
Her father forbade her design to bum it ; it 
was read, as completed, in the winter of 1826, 
and the authorship disclosed ; but she had 
not courage to publish it for several years. 
She saw iis defects more distinctly than be- 
fore, when it appeared in print, and resolved 



never again to attempt anything so long in 
the form of poetry. Her eyesight failed for 
four or five years, during which time she was 
almost entirely deprived of the use of books, 
the pen, and what she says she most regret- 
ted, the needle. 

Previously to this, however, in 1831, her 
father had retired to "Worcester, carrying with 
him a library of some three thousand volumes, 
containing many valuable works in Latin, 
French, and Italian. During her partial blind- 
ness, he read to her several hours every day, 
and assisted her in collecting the materials 
for her tale of Joanna of Naples, and for a 
biographical notice of Elizabeth Carter, the 
English authoress. 

On the first of October, 1 840, she was mar- 
ried to the Rev. Edward B. Hall, of Provi- 
dence, Rhode Island, where she still resides, 
too much interested in domestic affairs, and 
in the duties which grow out of her relation 
to her husband's society, to bestow much 
further attention upon literature. 

Miriam was published in 1S37. It re- 
ceived the best approval of contemporary 
criticism, and a second edition, with such 
revision as the condition of the author's eyes 
had previously forbidden, appeared in the 
following year. Mrs. Hall had not proposed 
to herself to write a tragedy, but a dramatic 
poem, and the result was an instance of the 
successful accomplishment of a design, in 
which failure would have been but a repeti- 
tion of the experiences of genius. The sub- 
ject is one of the finest in the ajmgls of the 
human race, but one which has never been 
treated with a more just appreciation of its 
nature and capacities. It is the first great 
conflict of the Master's kingdom, after its 
full establishment, with the kingdoms of this 
world. It is Christianity struggling with the 
first persecution of power, philosophy, and 
the interests of society. Milman had attempt- 
ed its illustration in his brilliant and stately 
tragedy of The Martyr of Antioch; Bulwer 
had laid upon it his familiar hands in The 
Last Days of Pompeii ; and since, our coun- 
tryman, William Ware, has exhibited it with 



112 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



power and splendor in his masterly romance 
of The Fall of Rome ; but no one has yet ap- 
proached more nearly its just delineation 
and analysis than Mrs. Hall in this beautiful 
poem. 

The plot is single, easily understood, and 
steadily progressiye in interest and in action. 
Thraseno, a Christian exile from Judea, 
dwells with his family in Rome. He has 
two children, Euphas, and a daughter of re- 
markable beauty and a heart and mind in 
which are blended the highest attributes of 
her sex and her religion. She is seen and 
loved by Paulus, a young nobleman, whose 
father, Piso, had in his youth served in the 
armies in Palestine. The passion is mutu- 
al, but secret ; and having failed to win the 
Roman to her faith, the Christian maiden 
resolves to part from him for ever. The 
family are summoned to the funeral of an 
aged friend, but she excuses herself for not 
going, and the agitation of her countenance 
arrests attention and leads to the most af- 
fectionate inquiries from Thraseno and Eu- 
phas. She replies: 

My father ! I am ill. 
A weight is on my spirits, and I feel 
The fountain of existence drying up. 
Shrinking I luiow not where, Hke waters lost 
Amid the desert sands. Nay ! grow not pale ! 
I have felt thus, and thought each secret spring 
Of life was failing fast within me. T/ien 
In saddest willingness I could have died. 
There have been hours I would have quitted you. 
And all that life hath dear and beautiful, 
Without one wish to linger in its smiles : 
My summons would have called a weary soul 
Out of a heavy bondage. But this day 
A better hope hath dawned upon my mind. 
A high and pure resolve is nourished there. 
And even now it sheds upon my breast 
That holy peace it hath not known so long. 
This night — !iy ! in a few brief hours, perchance. 
It will know calm once more — (or break at once !) 

l_Aside. 

This is unsatisfactory ; their suspicions are 
excited, and they urge her to dispel the mys- 
tery that invests her conduct. She says : 

I can not — can not yef^ 
Have I not told you that a starlike gleam 
Was rising on my darkened mind 1 When Hope 
Shall sit upon the tossing waves of thought, 
As broods the halcyon on the troubled deep, 
Then, if my spirit be not blighted, wrecked, 
Crushed, by the storm, I will unfold my griefs. 
But until then — and long it will not be ! — 
Yet in that brief, brief time my soul must bear 
A fiercer, deadlier struggle still ! — Ye dear ones ! 
Look not upon me thus but in your thoughts. 



When ye go forth unto your evening prayers. 
Oh, bear me up to heaven with all m}^ grief: 
Pray that my holy courage may not fail ! 

They renew their entreaties that she should 
go with them to the funeral of their fi-iend ; 
but she will carry no " troubled soul" to the 
"good man's obsequies," and answers to 
Thraseno's inquiry where would she seek 
for peace ? — 

Within these mighty walls of scepti-ed Rome 
A thousand temples rise unto her gods. 
Bearing their lofty domes unto the skies, 
Grac'd with the proudest pomp of earth ; their shrines 
Glittering with gems, their stately colonnades. 
Their dreams of genius wrought into bright forms, 
Instinct with grace and godUke majesty. 
Their ever smoking altars, white robed priests. 
And all the pride of gorgeous sacrifice, [ascend 
And yet these things are naught. Rome's prayers 
To greet th' unconscious skies, in the blue void 
Lost like the floating breath of frankincense, 
And find no hearing or acceptance there. 
And yet there is an Eye that ever marks 
Where its own people pay their simple vows. 
Though to the rocks, the caves, the wilderness, 
Scourged by a stem and ever watchful foe ! 
There is an Ear that hears the voice of prayer 
Rising from lonely spots where Christians meet. 
Although it stir not more the sleeping air 
Than the soft waterfall, or forest breeze. 
Think' St thou, my father, this benignant God 
Wdl close his ear, and turn in wrath away 
From the poor sinful creature of his hand. 
Who breathes in solitude her humble prayer ? 
Think'st thou he will not hear me, shoidd I kneel 
Here in the dust beneath his stanj' sky. 
And strive to raise my voiceless thoughts to him, 
Making an altar of my broken heart '! 

They are at length persuaded to leave her, 
and they are scarcely gone w-h'en Paulus en- 
ters, with expressions of confidence and love, 
which are quickly cheeked by the changed 
expression of her countenance: 

Paulus. Never, except in dreams, have I beheld 
Such deep and dreadful meaning in thine eye. 
Such agony upon thy quivering lip ! 
Speak, Miriam ! breathe one blessed word of life ; 
For in the middle watch of yesternight 
Even thus I saw a dim and shadowy ghost 
Standmg beneath the moon's uncertain light. 
So mute — so motionless — so changed — and yet 
So like to thee ! 

Miriam. My Paulus ! 

Paul. 'Tis thy voice ! 
Praised be the gods ! it never seemed so sweet. 
Say on ! my spirit hangs upon thy words. 
What blight hath stricken thee since last we met 1 

Mir. A blight that is contagious, and will fall 
Perchance upon thy fairest, dearest hopes. 
With no less deadly violence than now 
It hath on mine. Paulus ! is there no word 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



113 



These lips can utter, that may make thee wish 
Eternal silence there had stamped her seal "i 

Paul. I know not, love ! thou startlest me ! — 
no ! none ! 
Unless it be of hatred — change — or death ! 
And these — it can he none of these ! 

Mir. Why not ? 

Paul. Ye gods, mj' Miriam ! look not on me thus ! 
My blood runs cold. " Wliy not," saidst thou ? Be- 
Thou art too young, too good, too beautiful, [cause 
To die ; and as for change or hatred, love, 
Not tin I see yon clear and starry skies 
Raining down fire and pestilence on man, 
Turning the beauteous earth whereon we stand 
Into an arid, scathed, and blackening waste, 
Miriam, will I beheve that thou canst change. 

Mir. Oh, thou art right ! the anguish of my soul, 
My spirit's deep and rending agony, 
Tell me that though this heart may surely break, 
There is no change withm it ! and through life, 
Fondly and wildly — though most hopelessly — 
With all its strong affections will it cleave 
To him for whom it nearly yielded all 
That makes life precious — peace and self esteem, 
Friends upon earth, and hopes in heaven above ! 

Paul. Mean'st thou — I know not what. My 
mind grows dark 
Amid a thousand wildering mazes lost. 
There is a wild and dreadful mystery 
Even in thy words of love I can not solve. 

Mir. Hear me : for with the holy faith that erst 
Made strong the shuddering patriarch's heart and 

hand. 
When meek below tlie glittering knife lay stretched 
The boy whose smiles were sunshine to his age. 
This night I offer up a sacrifice 
Of life's best hopes to the One Living God ! 
Yes, firom this night, my Paulus, never more 
Mine eyes shall look upon thy form, mine ears 
Drink in the tones of thy beloved voice. 

Paul. Ye gods ! ye cruel gods ! let me awake 
And find this but a dream ! 

i¥j>. Is it then said 1 
God ! the words so fraught with bitterness 
So soon are uttered — and thy seiTant lives ! 
Ay, Paulus ; ever from that hour, when first 
My spirit knew that thine was wholly lost. 
And to its superstitions wedded fast. 
Shrouded in darkness, blind to every beam 
Streaming from Zion's hill athwart the night 
That broods in horror o'er a heathen world, 
Even from that hour my shuddering soul beheld 
A dark and fathomless abyss yawn wide 
Between us two ; and o'er it gleamed alone 
One pale, dim twinkling star ! the lingering hope 
That grace descending from the Throne of I-ight 
Might fall in gentle dews upon that heart. 
And melt it into humble piety. 
Alas ! that hope hath faded ; and I see 
The fatal gulf of separation still 
Between us, love, and stretching on for aye 
Beyond the grave in which I feel that soon 
This clay with all its sorrows shall lie down. 
Union for us is none, in yonder sky ; 
Then how on earth 1 — so in my inmost soul, 
8 



Nurtured with midnight tears, with blighted hopes, 

With silent watchings and incessant prayers, 

A holy resolution hath ta'en root, 

And in its might at last springs proudly up. 

We part, my Paulus ! not in hate, but love, 

Yielding unto a stern necessity. 

And I along my sad, short pilgrimage, 

Will bear the memory of our sinless love 

As mothers wear the image of the babe 

That died upon their bosom ere the world 

Had stamped its spotless soul with good or ill, 

Pictured in infant loveliness and smiles. 

Close to the heart's fond core, to be drawn forth 

Ever in sohtude, and bathed m tears. — 

But how ! with such unmanly grief struck down. 

Withered, thou Roman knight ! 

Paul. My brain is pierced ! 
Mine eyes with blindness smitten ! and mine ear 
Rings faintly with the echo of thy words ! 
Henceforth what man shall ever build his faith 
On woman's love, on woman's constancy 1 — 
Maiden, look up ! I would but gaze once more 
Upon that open brow and clear, dark eye. 
To read what aspect Perjury may wear, 
What garb of loveliness may Falsehood use. 
To lure the eye of guileless, manly love ! 
Cruel, cold blooded, fickle that thou art, 
Dost thou not quail beneath thy lover's eye '] 
How ! there is hght within thy lofty glance, 
A flush upon thy cheek, a settled calm 
Upon thy lip and brow I 

Mir. Ay, even so. 
A light — a flush — a calm — not of this earth ! 
For in this hour of bitterness and wo. 
The grace of God is falling on my soul 
Like dews upon the withering grass which late 
Red scorching flames have seared. Again 
The consciousness of faith, of sins forgiven, 
Of wrath appeased, of heavy guilt thrown off, 
Sheds on my breast its long forgotten peace. 
And shining steadfast as the noonday sun, 
Lights me along the path that duty marks. 
Lover too dearly loved ! a long farewell ! 
The bannered field, the glancing spear, the shout 
That bears the victor's name unto the skies — 
The laurelled brow — be thine 

Before the conclusion of this scene, which is 
full of natural pathos and the illustrations of 
a passionate fancy, they are interrupted by 
Euphas, who suddenly returns to inform his 
sister that the funeral party had been sur- 
prised by a band of Roman soldiers, some 
slain, and others, among whom was their 
father, borne to prison. The indignation of 
Euphas is excited by finding Paulus with 
Miriam, and she answers to his reproaches : 

Stay, stay, rash boy ! Alas! 
The thickening horrors of this awful nignt 
Have flung, methinks, a spell upon my soul. 
I tell thee, Euphas, thou hast far more cause. 
Proudly to clasp my breaking heart to thine. 
And bless me with a lo\'ing brother's praise. 
Than thus to stand with sad but angry eye. 



114 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



Hurling thy hasty scorn upon a hrow 

As sinless as thine own — breaking the reed 

But newly bruised — pouring coals of fire 

Upon my fresh and bleeding wounds ! Oh, tell me, 

What hath befallen my father 1 Say he lives. 

Or let me lay my head upon thy breast, 

And die at once ! 

Euphas answers harshly, and by the aid of a 
body of Christians, armed for the emergency, 
he seizes Paulus as a hostage, and goes to 
the palace of Piso to claim the liberation of 
Thraseno. Miriam, who had fainted during 
this scene, on her recovery follows him on 
his hopeless errand ; and we are next intro- 
duced to the palace, where the young Chris- 
tian is urging, on the grotmd of humanity, 
the release of his father, in a manner finely 
contrasted with the contemptuous fierceness 
of the hardhearted magistrate. Piso is in- 
exorable, and Euphas reminds him of his son, 
tells him that he is a hostage, and discloses 
liis love for Miriam. The Roman exclaims : 

Knowest thou not 
Thou hast but sealed thy fate f His hfe had been 
More precious to me than the air I breathe ; 
And cheerfiilly I would have yielded up 
A thousand Christian dogs from yonder dens 
To save one hair upon his head. But now — 
A Christian maid ! Were there none other 1 Gods ! 
Shame and a shameful death be his, and thine ! 

Eiiph. It is tlie will of God. My hopes burnt dim 
Even from the first, and are extinguished now. 
The thirst of blood hath rudely choked at last 
The one affection which thy dark breast knew. 
And thou art man no more. Let me but die 
First of thy victims 

Pi^o. Would that she among them 

Where is the sorceress 1 I fain would see 

The beauty that hath witched Rome's noblest youth. 

Euph. Hers is a face thou never wilt behold. 

Piso. I will. On her shall fall ray worst revenge ; 
And I will know what foul and magic arts 

Here Miriam glides in, and changes the whole 
current of Piso's feelings, by her extraordina- 
ry resemblance to a Jewess whom he had 
loved in youth and never ceased to lament. 
He addresses her as' the spirit of the object 
of his early passion: 

Beautiful shadow ! in this hour of wrath, 
What dost thou here ? In life thou wert too meek, 
Too gentle for a lover stem as I. 
And, since I saw thee last, my days have been 
Deep steeped in sin and blood ! What seekest thou 1 
I have grown old in strife, and hast thou come. 
With thy dark eyes and their soul searchmg glance. 
To look me into peace ? It can not be. 
Go back, fair spirit, to thine own dim realms ! 
He whose young love thou didst reject on earth, 
May tremble at this visitation strange. 
But never can know peace or vii-tue more ! 



Thou wert a Christian, and a Cliristian dog 
Did win thy precious love. I have good cause 
To hate and scorn the whole detested race ; 
And till I meet that man, whom most of all 
My soul abhors, will I go on and slay ! 
Fade, vanish, shadow bright ! In vain that look. 
That sweet, sad look ! My lot is cast in blood ! 

Mir. Oh, say not so ! 

Piso. The voice that won me first ! 
Oh, what a tide of recollections rush 
Upon my drowning soul ! my ovm wild love — 
Thy scorn — the long, long days of blood and guilt 
That since have left their footprints on my fate ! 
The dark, dark nights of fevered agony. 
When, mid the stiife and struggling of my dreams, 
The gods sent thee at times to hover round, 
Bringing the memory of those peaceful days 
When I beheld thee first ! But never yet 
Before my waking eyes hast thou appeared 
Distinct and visible as now. Fair spuit ! 
What wouldst thou have 1 

Mlir. Oh, man of guilt and wo ! 
Thine own dark fantasies are busy now, 
Lending unearthly seeming to a thing 
Of earth, as thou art. 

Piso. How ! Art thou not she 7 
I know that face ! I never yet beheld 
One like to it among earth's lovehest. 
Why dost thou wear that semblance, if thou art 
A thing of mortal mould 1 Oh, better meet 
The wailing ghosts of those whose blood doth clog 
My midnight dreams, than that half pitying eye ! 

Mir. Thou art a wretched man ! and I do feel 
Pity even for the suiTering guilt hath brought. 
But from the quiet grave I have not come, 
Nor from the shado%vy confines of the world 
Where spirits dwell, to haunt thy midnight hour. 
The disembodied should be passionless. 
And wear not eyes that swim in earthbom tears, 
As mine do now. Look up, thou conscience struck ! 

Piso. Ofl"! off! She touched me with her damp, 
cold hand, 
But 'twas a hand of flesh and blood ! Away I 
Come thou not near me till I study thee. 

Mir. Why are thine eyes so fixed and wild 1 — 
thy lips 
Convulsed and ghastly white 1 Thine own dark 
Vexing thy soul, have clad me in a form [sins. 
Thou darest not look upon — I know not why. 
But I must speak to thee. Mid thy remorse, 
And the unwonted terrors of thy soul, 
I must be heard, for God hath sent me here. 

Piso. 'Who, who hath sent thee here ? 

Mir. The Chnstian's God, 
The God thou knowest not. 

Piso. Thou art of earth ! 
I see the rose tint on thy pallid cheek. 
Which was not there at first : it kindles fast I 
Say on. Although I dare not meet that eye, 
I hear thee. 

Mir. He hath given me strength, 
And led me safely through the broad, lone streets. 
Even at the midnight hour. My heart sunk not ; 
My noiseless foot paced on unfaltering 
Through the long colonnades, where stood aloft 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



115 



Pale gods and goddesses on either hand, 
Bending their sightless eyes on me ! by founts, 
Waking with ceaseless plash the midnight air ! 
Through moonlit squares, where, ever and anon, 
Flashed from some dusky nook the red torchlight, 
Flung on my path by passing reveller. 
And He hath brought me here before thy face ; 
And it was He who smote thee even now 
With a strange, nameless fear. 

Piso. Girl ! name it not. 
I deemed I looked on one whose bright young face 
First glanced on me mid the shining leaves 
Of a green bower in sunny Palestine, 
In my youth's prime. I knew the dust, 
The grave's corroding dust, had soiled 
That spotless brow long since. A shadow fell 
Upon the soul that never yet knew fear. 
But it is past. Earth holds not what I dread ; 
And what the gods did make me, am I now. 
What seekest thou 1 

Euph. Miriam ! go thou hence. 
Why shouldst thou die 1 

Mir. Brother! 

Piso. Ha ! is this so ? 
Now, by the gods ! — Bar, bar the gates, ye slaves ! 
If they escape me now — Why, this is good ! 
I had not deemed of hap so glorious. 
She that beguiled my son ! his sister ! 

Mir. Peace ! 
Name not, with tongue unhallowed, love like ours. 

Pito. Thou art her image ; and the mystery 
Confounds my purposes. Take other form. 
Foul sorceress, and I will batfle thee ! 

Mir. I have no other form than this God gave ; 
And he aheady hath stretched forth his hand, 
And touched it for the grave. 

Piso. It is most strange. 
Is not the air around her full of spells 1 
Give me the son thou hast seduced ! 

Mir. Hear, Piso ! 
Thy son hath seen me, loved me, and hath won 
A heart too prone to worship noble things. 
Although of earth ; and he, alas ! was earth's. 
I strove. I prayed in vain. In all things else 
I might have stirred his soul's best purposes ; 
But for the pure and cheering faith of Christ, 
There was no entrance in that iron soul. 
And I — amid such hopes, despair arose. 
And laid a withering hand upon my heart. 
I feel it yet ! We parted. Ay, this night 
We met to meet no more. 

Euph. Sister ! my tears — 
They choke my words — else — • 

]\Er. Euphas, thou wert wroth 
When there was little cause ; I loved thee more. 
Thy very frowns in such a holy cause 
Were beautiful. The scorn of virtuous youth, 
Looking on fancied sin, is noble. 

Piso. Maid ! 
Hath, then, my son withstood thy witchery, 
And on this ground ye parted 1 

JVCr. It is so. 
Alas ! that I rejoice to tell it thee. 

Piso. Nay, 
Well thou mayst, for it hath wrought his pardon. 



That he had loved thee would have been a sin 

Too full of degradation — infamy. 

Had not these cold and aged eyes themselves 

Beheld thee in thy loveliness ! And yet, bold girl ! 

Think not thy .Tewish beauty is the spell 

That works on one grown old in deeds of blood. 

I have looked calmly on when eyes as bright 

Were drowned in tears of bitter agony. 

When forms as full of grace and pride, perchance, 

Were writhing in the sharpness of their pain, 

And cheeks as fair were mangled — • 

Euph. Tyrant ! cease. 
Wert thou a fiend, such brutal boasts as these 
Were not for ears like hers ! 

Mir. I ti-emble not. 
He spake of pardon for his gioiltless son, 
And that includeth life for those I love. 
What need I more 1 

Euph. Let us go hence at once. Piso ! 
Bid thou thy myrmidons unbar the gates, 
That shut our fHends ti-om Ught and air. 

Piso. Not yet. 
My haughty boy, for we have much to say 
Ere you two pretty birds go free. Chafe not ! 
Ye are caged close, and can but flutter here 
Till I am satisfied. 

Mir. How ! hast thou changed — 

Piso. Nay ; but I must detain ye till I ask — 

Mir. Detain us if thou wilt. But look — 

Piso. At what 1 

Mir. There, through yon western arch I — the 
moon sinks low. 
The mists already tinge her orb with blood. 
Methinks I feel the breeze of mom e'en now. 
Knowest thou the hour 1 

Piso. I do ; but one thing more 
I fain would know ; for, after this wild night, 
Let me no more behold you. Why didst thou, 
Bold, dark-haired boy, wear in those pleading eyes, 
When thou didst name thy boon, an earnest look 
That fell familiar on my soul ? And thou, 
The lofty, calm, and oh, most beautifiil ! 
Why are not only that soul-searching glance, 
But e'en thy features and thy silver voice, 
So Uke to hers I loved long years ago. 
Beneath Judea's palms 1 Whence do ye come 1 

Mir. For me, I bear my own dear mother's brow ; 
Her eye, her form, her very voice, are mine. 
So, in his teal's, my father oft hath said. 
We lived beneath Judea's shady palms. 
Until that saintlike mother faded, drooped. 
And died. Then hither came we o'er the waves, 
And till this night have worshipped faithfully 
The one, true, living God, in secret peace. 

Piso. Thou art her child ! I could not harm thee 
Oh, wonderful ! that things so long forgot — [now. 
A love I thought so crushed and trodden down. 
E'en by the iron tread of passions wild — 
Ambition, pride, and, worst of all, revenge — 
Revenge, that hath shed seas of Christian blood ! 
To thmk this heart was once so waxen soft, 
And then congealed so hard, that naught of all 
Which hath been since could ever have the power 
To wear away the image of that girl — 
That fair young Christian gul ! 'T was a wild love 



116 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



But I was young, a soldier in strange lands, 
And she, in very gentleness, said nay 
So timidlj'; I hoped — until, ye gods ! 
She loved another ! Yet I slew him not ! 
I fled. Oh, had I met him since ! 

Euph. Come, sister ! 
The liours wear on. 

Piso, Ye shall go forth in joy — • 
And take with you yon prisoners. Send my son, 
Him whom she did not bear — home to these arms, 
And go ye out of Rome with all your train. 
I will shed blood no more ; for I have known 
What sort of peace deep glutted vengeance brings. 
My son is brave, but of a gentler mind 
Than I have been. His eyes shall never more 
Be grieved with sight of sinless blood poured forth 
From tortured veuis. Go forth, ye gentle two ! 
Children of her who might perhaps have poured 
Her own meek spirit o'er my nature stern, 
Since the bare image of her buried charms. 
Soft gleaming from your youthful brows, hath power 
To stir my spirit thus ! But go ye forth ! 
Ye leave an altered and a milder man 
Than him ye sought. Tell Paulus this, 
To quicken his young steps. 
Mir. Now may the peace 
That follows just and worthy deeds, be thine ! 
And may deep truths be bom, mid thy remorse, 
In the recesses of thy soul, to make 
That soul even yet a shrine of holiness. 

Euph. Piso, how shall we pass yon steelclad men, 

Keeping stern vigil round the dungeon gate 1 

Piso. Take ye my well known ring — and here, 

the list — 

Ay, this is it, methinks : show these — Great gods ! 

Euph. What is there on yon scroll which shakes 

him thus 1 
Mlir. A name, at which he points with stiffening 
And eyeballs full of wi-ath ! Alas ! alas ! [hand, 
I guess too well. — My brother, droop thou not. 

Piso. Your father, did ye say 1 Was it his life 
Ye came to beg 1 

Mir. His life ; but not alone 
The life so dear to us ; for he hath friends 
Sharing his fetters and his final doom. 

Piso. Little reck I of them. Tell me his name ! 
" [A pause. 

Speak, boy, or I will tear thee piecemeal ! 

Mir. Stay, 
Stern son of violence ! the name thou askest 
Is — is — Thraseno ! 

Piso. Well I knew it, girl ! 
Now, by the gods, had I not been entranced, 
I sooner had conjectured this. Foul name ! 
Thus do I tear thee out, and even thus 
Rend with my teeth ! Oh, rage ! she wedded him, 
And ever since that hated name hath been 

The voice of serpents in mine ear ! But now 

Why go ye not 1 Here is your list : and all, 
Ay, every one whose name is here set down, 
Will my good guards forthwith release you. 

Mir. Piso! 
In mercy mock us not ! children of her 

Whom thou didst love 

Piso. Ay, maid, but ye are his 



Whom I do hate ! That chord is broken now — 
Its music hushed. Is she not in her grave, 
And he within my grasp 1 

Mir. Where is thy peace, 
Thy penitence 1 • 

Piso. Fled all — a moonbeam brief 
Upon a stormy sea. That magic name 
Hath roused the wild, loud winds again. Begone ! 
Save whom ye may. 

Mir. Piso ! I go not hence 
Until my father's name he on this scroll. 

Piso. Take root, then, where thou art ! for by 

I swear ■ [dark Styx 

Mir. Nay, swear thou not, till I am heard. 
Hast thou forgot thy son ? 
Piso. No ! let him die. 
So that I have my long deferred revenge. 
Thy lip grows pale ! Art thou not answered now ? 

Mir. Deep horror falls upon me ! Can it be 
Such demon spirits dwell on earth 1 

Piso. Bold maiden, 
While thou art safe, go hence ; for in his might 
The tiger wakes within me ! 

Mir. Be it so. 
He can but rend me where I stand. And here, 
Living or dying, will I raise my voice 
In a firm hope ! The God that brought me here 
Is round me in the silent air. On me 
Falleth the mfluence of an unseen eye ! 
And in the strength of secret, earnest prayer. 
Tills awful consciousness doth nerve my fi'ame. 
Thou man of evil and ungoverned soul ! 
My father thou mayst slay ! Flames will not fall 
From heaven to scorch and wither thee ! The earth 
Will gape not miderneath thy feet ! and peace. 
Mock, hollow, seeming peace, may shadow still 
Thy home and hearth ! But deep within thy breast 
A fierce, consuming fire shall ever dwell. 
Each night shall ope a gulf of horrid dreams 
To swallow up thy soul. The livelong day 
That soul shall yearn for peace and quietness. 
As the hart panteth for the water brooks, 
And know that even in death is no repose ! 
And this shall be thy life. Then a dark hour 

Will surely come 

Piso. Maiden, be warned ! All this 
I know. It moves me not. 

Mir. Nay, one thing more 
Thou knowest not. There is on all this earth — 
Full as it is of young and gentle hearts — 
One man alone that loves a wretch like thee ; 
And he, thou sayest, must die ! All other eyes 
Do greet thee with a cold or wrathful look, 
Or, in the baseness of theh fear, shun thine ! 
And he whose loving glance alone spake peace. 
Thou say'st must die in youth ! Thou know'st not 
The deep and bitter sense of loneliness, [yet 

The throes and achings of a childless heart, 
Which yet will all be thine ! Thou know'st not yet 
What 'tis to wander mid thy spacious halls, 
And find them desolate I wildly to stai-t 
From thy deep musings at the distant sound 
Of voice or step like his, and sink back sick — 
Ay, sick at heart — with dark remembrances I 
To dream thou seest him as in years gone by, 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



117 



\^'^len in his bright and joyous infancy, 
His laughing eyes amid thick curls sought thine, 
And his soft arms were twined around thy neck. 
And his twin rosebud lips just lisped thy name — 
Yet feel in agony 'tis but a dream ! 
Thou knowest not yet what 't is to lead the van 
Of armies hurrying on to victory, 
Yet, in the pomp and glory of that hour. 
Sadly to miss the well known snowy plume, 
Whereon thine eyes were ever proudly fixed 
In battle field ! — to sit, at midnight deep. 
Alone within thy tent — all shuddering — 
When, as the curtained door lets in the breeze, 
Thy fincy conjures up the gleaming arms 
And bright young hero face of him who once 
Had been most welcome there ! and worst of all — 

Piso. It is enough ! The gift of prophecy 
Is on thee, maid I A power that is not thine 
Looks out from that dilated, awfiil form — 
Those eyes deep flashing with unearthly light — 
And stills my soul. My Paulus must not die ! 
And j'et — to give up thus the boon ! 

Mir. What boon 1 
A boon of blood 1 — To him, the good old man, 
Death is not terrible, but only seems 
A dark, short passage to a land of light, 
Where, mid high ecstasy, he shall behold 
Th' unshrouded glories of his Maker's face. 
And learn all mysteries, and gaze at last 
Upon th' ascended Prince, and never more 
Know grief or pain, or part irom those he loves ! 
Yet will his blood cry loudly from the dust. 
And bring deep vengeance on his murderer ! 

Piso. My Paulus must not die ! Let me revolve : 
Maiden, thy words have sunk into my soul ; 
Yet would I ponder ere I thus lay down 
A pui'pose cherished in my inmost heart. 
That which hath been my dream by night — by day 
My life's sole aim. Have I not deeply sworn. 
Long years ere thou wert born, that should the gods 
E'er give him to my rage — and yet I pause 1 — 



Shall Christian vipers sting mine only son, 
And I not crush them into nothingness 1 
Am I so pmioned, vain, and powerless ? 
Work, busy brain ! thy cunning must not fail. 

[Reiires. 

The tjTant promises to restore Thraseno to 
his children, and the scene changes to where 
Paulus is awaiting the result. The long so- 
liloquy in which he expresses his varying 
moods reminds us somewhat too much of 
the sombre reveries of Manfred, though its 
original conceptions illustrate a power equal 
to its independent composition. 

Piso but keeps the word of his last prom- 
ise, for only the dead body of Thraseno is 
restored to Euphas and Miriam. Paulus, in 
horror, renounces his parent and his religion, 
and, while a dirge is sung over the martyr, 
Miriam dies. 

The fine and poetical spirit which pervades 
the poem is sufficiently apparent in these ex- 
tracts. There is in parts a slight want of 
keeping, and it may be that the tone is gen- 
erally too oratorical, though the incidents 
justify almost throughout the work a certain 
dignity of expression, and the youthful ages 
of the chief characters make appropriate a 
more ornate style than wotild befit a greater 
maturity of life. 

Among the minor poems of Mrs. Hall per- 
haps the best is a Dramatic Sketch, in The 
Token, for 1839. There has been no collec- 
tion of her fugitive pieces, and it is probable 
that I have seeij too few of them to form an 
intelligent estimate of their character. 



JUSTICE AND MERCY. 

I SAW in my dream a countless throng 
By a mighty whirlwmd hurried along. 

Hurried along through boundless space 
With a fearful, onward, rushing sweep, 
Looking like beings roused from sleep. 

Till they met their Maker face to face. 

Then, consciousness waked in each dark eye. 
The mercy seat shone above on high. 

And a timid, wild, but hopeful gaze 
Those wandering spirits upward cast, 
As if they had cause of joy at last. 

When they saw the throne of judgment blaze. 

"Justice!" they cried, with sound so clear, 
The stars of the universe needs must hear ; 

"Justice !" again, again rang out, 
As of those who felt the hour had come 
When earth-choked lips should no more be dumb, 

And all God's worlds must hear their shout. 



They were the souls of myriad men 

Who had died, and none cared how or when, 

Who had dwelt on earth as slaves — as slaves ! 
They were the men by death set firee. 

And flocking they came from their milUon graves, 
They who on earth had scarce dared be, 

Shaking the bonds fi'om their half-crushed souls, 

Uttering a cry that rent the poles. 
For they knew that God would hear them then. 

And afar I beheld a smaller band. 

With hands claspt-d over their downcast eyes. 
For before the blaze they could not stand. 

And away had fallen their robes of lies. 
Naked, affrighted, pierced with light, 

They knew themselves and their deeds at last ; 
From their quivering lips to the throne of Right 

A faint low cry of " Mercy !" passed. 

Justice and Mercy ! hear them both ! 

Bondman and master both are here ; 
Each asketh that he needcth most. 

Now pass firom my soul, thou dream of fear ! 



US 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 

CHARACTERS. 
KING HENRY THE SEVENTH. 
LADY CATHERINE, (/<£r Wifeof Perldn Warbeck. 
CLARA, Iter AtUndaia. 

SIR FLORIAN, a Frieiidof Perk'm Wat-beck, 
Seem. — A Castle on the Seacoojl, in Cornwall. 
Time.—Tiie Autumn oj the year 1499. 

LADT CATHERINE anil CLARA. 

Ijody C. Opes that casement toward the sea, 
I gaze in vain along the hilly waste, [my Clara. 
Watching the lone and solitary road 
Until mine eyes are strained. The dull day wanes, 
The sad November day — and yet there come 
No tidings from my lord ! Ay, that is well ! 
Sit thou where I have sat these many hom's 
In patience sorrowful ; and summon me 
With a most joyous cry, if thy kind watch 
Be more successful. Sea ! for ever tossing, 
Thy very motion is so beautiful. 
So wild and spirit-stirring, as I turn 
From the bleak, changeless moor, all desolate, 
I bless each wave thai breaks against yon cliff. 
Oh, mighty ocean ! thou art free — art free ! 
Dash high, thou foamy-crested billow, high ! 
That was a leap, which sent the snowy spray 
Up to yon o'erhanging crag, and forth 
The screaming sea-bird sprang rejoicingly. 
Clara, do not forget thy watch. 

Clara. Nay, lady, 
Return not yet ; thou shalt have warning swift. 
If but a lonely traveller tread the heath. 

Lady C, Yes : I will trust thee, and again look 
Upon the glorious sea. In my youth's prime [forth 
Is it not strange I thus should love to gaze 
On a wild ocean-view and frowning sky ? 
Oh, sorrow, fear, and dark suspense, what change 
Ye work in brief — brief space on careless hearts ! 
Methinks it was not many months ago 
Childhood was round me with its rainbow dreams ; 
Then came the glittering vision of a court. 
Dear Scotland's court, where on my bridal hour 
A gracious monarch smiled, and silently 
Time stole the wings of love. My husband ! dearest ! 
Our happy hours were few. The echoes still 
Rang back the harp's sweet nuptial melody. 
When came a fearfiil voice, I scarce knew whence — 
But terrible, dh terrible it was ! 
The dew scarce dry upon the snowy rose 
I wore that morn, when it was wet afresh 
With tears of parting ! 'T was but for a time. 
He said, and we should meet again. My heart 
Clings to the promise sweet — " We meet again ;" 
But when, oh when 1 Ye vain remembrances ! 
Depart. Let me survey the heath once more. 
The ocean breeze has fanned the pain away 
From my hot brow, and now it wearies me 
To look upon those restless waves. Their roar 
Comes faintly up from yonder wet. black rocks, 
Monotonous and hoarse ; the mighty clouds 
Sweep endless o'er the heavens ; I am sad, 
.4nd all things sadden me. They 'II set him free, 
They surely will, my Clara ! thou hast said it 
Full twenty times this day, and yet again 
I fain would hear such empty words of cheer. 



What is yon speck upon the dusky neatti? 
Look — look ! 

Clara. I have been watching it, dear lady : 
'T is but a lonely tree. 

Lady C. No, no, it moves. 
My heart's solicitude doth give me sight 
Keener than thine ; it moves ; it comes this way. 
What may its form and bearing be 1 It nears 
Yon pile of rocks. Clara, such speed denotes 
A horseman fleet. Peace, heart ! throb not so fast. 

Clara. The gray mist settles down and mocks 
It is a peasant, toiling through the fiirze. [thine eye. 

Lady C. Nay, 'tis a mounted knight ! yon hil- 
Thou wilt descry him plain. [lock passed, 

Clara. 'T is so ! he rides — 
He rides for life. Is 't not the jet-black steed 
Sir Florian mounts ? 

Lady C. It is my husband's friend ! 
'T is he that rushes on with such mad haste. 
Tidings at last — oh, Clara, I am faint. [comes 

Clara. Be calm, my much-ti'ied mistress ; joy still 
Close upon apprehension. 

Lady C. Is it so 1 
I can not tell. Would bad news spur him thus 1 

Clara. Believe me, no. Be calm. 

Lady C. I will — I will. 
Is he not here 1 he 's wondrous slow, methinks. 

Clara. The noble charger 's spent ; his smoking 
Are flecked with foam, and eveiy gallant leap [sides 
Seems as 'twould be his last. Why doth his rider 
Cast back such troubled glances o'er the moor t 
Now to the ground he springs ; the brave steed drops. 
Lady, look up ! Sir Florian is at hand. 

Enter FLORIAN. 

Sir F. Where is the lady Catherine t Oh, away ! 
Fly for your life ! 

Lady C. Fly 1 and from whom 1 or why 1 

Sir F. Question me not : I do conjure you, fly ! 
The danger 's imminent ; — moments are precious ; 
Down to the beach : take boat without delay. 
It is your husband's bidding. 

Lady C. Oh, thank Heaven 
For those- two words ! Am I to meet him, then 1 

Sir F. No, lady, no ! but I have been delayed, 
Crossed, intercepted, and well nigh cut off, 
Till on a moment's grace your life depends. 
The king pursues. 

Lady C. The king ! in mercy say, 
Where is my husband ? 

Sir F. London Tower held still 
The princely wanderer, when the rumor came 
That Henry's wrath burnt hot 'gainst thee, sweet 
And that the place of thy retreat was knovm. [lady, 
Fly ! 't is thy husband's word. 

Lady C. Imprisoned still ! 
Take me to London, noble Florian. Nay, 
How can I live but in that same dark Tower, 
Where they have pinioned down my gallant lord, 
My noble, much-wronged lord 1 Not yet set free 1 
He hath been pardoned once, if men told true. 

Sir F. Come, fair and most unhappy ! 

Lady C. I have heard 
Such fearful tales of bloody murders done 
In the mysterious circuit of those walls ! 
What, didst thou leave him well 1 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



119 



Sir F. In truth I did, 
Though somewhat wan and wasted ; anxious, too. 
For thy most precious life. Come, I conjure thee ! 

Cla. There is a strange and hollow sound abroad. 
'T is not the sea ! 

Sir F. No, nor (he sweeping wind. 
It is the tramp of steeds fast galloping ! [now 

Cla. They come,! like mounted giants looming 
Through the dim mist. 

Sir F. She 's lost ! Why lingered 1 1 [now 

Cla. Quick ! there is time ; our startled menials 
Bar fast the outer doors : yon staircase leads 
Down through a vaulted passage to the shore. 
Still motionless, sweet mistress 1 

Lady C. Was he worn 
And pale, saidst thou 1 Truly I do rejoice 
The king draws nigh, for on my bended knees 
Will I entreat to share my husband's cell. 

Cla. She is disti-aught. 

Sir F. Most gracious lady, list ! 
It is your blood this haughty monarch seeks, 
And with a vow against the innocent 
His soul is burdened ; do not wildly dream 
That he wilt pity thee : and for thy lord 

hady C. Pause not ; I do conjure thee, speak ! 

Sir F. He hath been tried, condemned 

Lady C. And slain ? 

Cla. That shriek 
Doth guide them hither. 

Sir F. Nay, he lives as yet. 
But vainly 

Lady C. Oh, God bless thee for that word ! 
He lives ! Monarch of England, come 1 

Cla. Hark, hark ! 
That crash — the doors are burst ! 

Sir F. Her doom is sealed. 

Mtusr KING HESRY 07id Jtundatits. 

K. Hen. We are in time : the bird hath not es- 
caped. 
Those hoof-tracks made me fear some traitor fleet 
Had warned her from the nest. Ha, frowning youth, 
W^hence comest thou 1 What may thine errand be. 
That brought thee hither in such furious haste 1 

Sir F. Thou well mightst guess : 'twas from thy 
bloody fangs 
I vainly hoped one victim to withdraw. 
She chose to trust thy clemency — alas ! [tongue 

K. Hen. Alas, indeed ! bold heart is thine, and 
As bold. But garb so travel-stained, fair sir, 
Fits not a lady's bower ; and thou 'It not love, 
Perchance, to lix that pity-beaming eye 
Upon my deeds of clemency. Take hence 
This youthful rebel, and let manacles 
Bind those officious hands. 

lExit SIR FLORIAN with ttvo Officers. 

Now for our work. 

We will survey this far-famed Scottish lily, 

Ere the sharp steel do crop its drooping head. 

Indeed, she 's wondrous fair ! Hast thou no voice. 

Pale suppliant 1 Its music must be rich. 

And e'en more eloquent than those clasped hands. 

That sweet, imploring face. Speak, for thy moments 

FUt into nothingness, and if thou hast 

One last petition for thy dying hour 

Lady C. My husband, gracious king ! 



K. Hen. What, art thou mad 1 [hence 

Lady C. Let me but see his face ! oh, drag me 
With scorn and violence to share his doom. 
And I will bless thy name. 

K. Hen. She hath gone wild 
With sudden terror. He 's condemned, sweet lady, 
To die a shameful death, and thou this hour — 
This very hour — must perish in thy youth. 
So bids my needful policy. Thinkest thou 
Of aught but precious life, with such a fate 
Darkening around thee, fair one t Now, ask aught 
But life 

Lady C. Life, life, mere breath ! and whatis that? 
Take it, my sovereign ! He who gave it me 
Win call my spirit home to heaven and peace. 
When this poor dust Ues low. I have no prayer 
To offer for my wretched life, if joy 
Lie dead and buried in my husband's grave. 
Is there no mercy for my gallant lord 1 
Crowned monarch, speak ! what can thy mightiness 
Grant thee beyond the holy povper to bless 1 

K. Hen. I must be stern in words as well as deeds. 
I charge thee, if thou hast a last request — • 
A dying message to the noble house 
Whence thou art sprung 

Lady C. My home — forsaken home ! 
It was for him I left the heathy hills 
Of my own Scotland ; there we had not perished 
Thus in Ufe's early bloom. May blessings rest 
On the old quiet castle, and each head 
Its gray roof shelters ! How those ancient halls 
Will ring a wild lament, when comes the tale 
That England's broken faith had widowed me. 
And laid me, all unmourned, in English dust ! 
Thy fame, proud king, thy fame 

K. Hen. Ha ! dost thou dare 
Breathe such reproach 1 Hear, then, unthinking girl, 
Since thou dost stir my wrath. Dost thou not know, 
Daughter of Gordon's stainless house, that thou 
Art to a mean and base impostor linked ! 
Duped and beguiled by crafty words, thy king 
Gave with his own pledged faith thy maiden hand 
To Margaret's lowborn tool ; and he hath lied — 
Lied his own life away, and stained his soul 
With foulest perjury to steal the crown 
Of glorious England from her lawful king. 
The fraud is plain ; the forfeit, his mean life. 
And men with eyes amazed shrink back fi-om him 
They followed in a dream. Awake thou, too ; 
Die not in thy delusion. 

Lady C. Now be still. 
My swelling heart ! speak calmly, quivering lips ! 
Man — I will call thee monarch now no more. 
While ring thy words of insult in mine ear. 
Thou dost defame the husband I adore. 
And, in mine hour of fear and agony. 
With cruel calumnies dost strive to rend 
The one true heart that loves him yet. Enough ! 
UrJdngly words were thine ; but I depart 
Where earthly slanders can not reach mine ear. 
Give orders : let me die. 

K. Hen. Nay, it is past ; 
It was a flash of momentary heat, 
For of a fiery race I came. Alas ! I mourn 
That in cold blood, fair lady, I must doom 



130 



LOUISA J. HALL. 



A creature young and innocent as thou 
To an untimely grave. And, if I gaze 
Longer upon that brow ingenuous, 
My pui'poses will surely melt. Farewell. 

Lady C. Stay, stay! hear but a few brief words. 
Not for myself I plead, not of my life, [my king ! 
My worthless life, would speak ; but fame, his fame, 
Dearer than kingdoms to his noble heart. 
Claims of his wife one burst of warm defence. 
If royal blood flow not within the veins 
Of him I loved and wedded, that deceit 
Was never his. The artftil may have played 
Upon his open nature, and have lured 
Then' victim to the toils for purposes 
They dared not own ; and now they may forsake — 
Oh, God of heaven ! 7 never will desert 
My mocked and much wronged husband, though 
Shrink from hun as a serpent. I may die [false men 
A bloody death, but with my last, last breath, 
Will still avow ray ti-usting love, and sue 
For mercy on his innocence. 

A". Hen. Now, lady 

Lady C Oh, peace — unless I read thy restless 
eye aright. 
Wilt thou not look on me ? 

\_Cae!ing herself at hUJ'ect. 

Doth thy heart swell 

With an unwonted fulness 1 Ha ! the vest 
Heaves glittering on thy breast ! — thou then art 
And, if tears choke me not, I will dare plead [moved. 
Even for him — him whom I may not name. 

K. Hen. Loosen my robe : away ; I will not hear. 

Lady C. Thou must, thou wilt : though slander- 
ous tongues do say 
Thy heart is steel, I will believe it not. 
While on that gracious face I gaze. Thou 'It hear me. 
His trust in flattering tongues for ever cured. 
His wild hopes mock'd.his young ambition quench'd, 
His wisdom ripened by adversity. 
Forth from his prison will my husband come 
A subject true and faithful to thy sway. 
And I will lead him far away fi-om courts, 
Into the heart of lonely Scottish hills ; 
There by some quiet lake his home shall he, 
So still and happy, that his stormy youth. 
With all its perilous follies, will but seem 
As a dim memory of some former state, 
In some forgotteii world. He shall grow old 
Ruling my simple vassals with such power 
As a brave hand and gentle heart may use; 
And never, never ask again, what blood 
Flows in his veins ; nor dream one idle dream 
Of courtiers, palaces, and sparkling crowns, 
While these fond lips can whisper winning words, 
A nd woman's ever-busy love can weave 
Ties strong but viewless round his manly heart. 
Thou 'It hear it not, but in that blessed home 
How will I murmur in my nightly prayers 
The name of England's king ! 

He 's free — ^he 's pardoned ! 
That tearful smile all graciously declares 
I am not vridowed in my wretched youth ! 
I shall behold his noble face again. 



God bless thee, generous prince, and give thee power 
Through long, 1 ong years, to bind upbleeding hearts, 
And use thy sceptre as a wand of peace ! 
My tears — they flowed not when I prayed — hut now 
The gi-ateful gush declares, when language fails. 
The ecstasy of joy ! 

Eiacr a Messenger, who presents a packet to tlie Khig, He breaks it 
open, iuid, iffter casting Ms ei/e itcer it, tnfus awat/ abriipilij, 

Cla. The king is troubled. 

K. Hen. (After a paused My sweet petitioner 
look up ! 

Lady C. Alas ! 
I dare not. 

K. Hen. Nay, why now such sudden fearl 
What sawest thou mirrored in my face 1 ■ 

Lady C. A nameless terror robs me of all strength. 
That packet ! oh, these quick and dread forebodings ! 
Speak ! it were mercy should thine accents kill. 

K. Hen. Thou hast a noble spirit : rouse it now 
Daughter of Gordon. 

Lady C. King ! say on — say all. 

K. Hen. Art thou prepared ? 

Lady C. What matters it ? speak, speak ! 
Prepared ? what, vsdth this dizzy, whirling brain 'i 
Comes fortitude amid such tierce suspense ? 
Tell me the worst — and show thy pity so. 

K. Hen. Blanched, gasping, but angelic still ! — 
What words 
Can sheathe the piercing news 1 Thy suit 
Was all too late, true wife ! He is in heaven. 

[LADY CATHEUINKJoiiio. 

" Pale rose of England !" — men have named thee 

well. 
What brought me hither 1 what? to murder thee ? 
Oh, pm-pose horrible ! I can not think 
This bosom ever harbored scheme so fierce. 
Dark, bloody policy ! it is dissolved 
Beneath the gentle light of innocence. 
Melted by woman's true and faithful love. 
Conquered by grief it is not mine to heal. 
The dead may not return — but she may live ! 
Quit not the Ijroken-hearted ! weeping maid. 
She hath been true till death. And I will give 
Shelter to sorrow such as these stern eyes 
Ne'er saw till now. To my own gentle queen 
Will I consign the victim of harsh times, [rose ! 
Thou sliouldst have bloomed in sunshine, blighted 
And ne'er have been transplanted from thy bower 
To waste such fragrant virtues mid the storm. 



Note. — In the relg:n of Henry Vn. of England, a pre- 
tender to the crown appeared, in the person of Perkin 
Warbeck, a youth who declared himself to be Richard, 
Duke of York, second eon of Edward IV. He was sup- 
ported by Margaret of York, the Duke of Burgundy, and 
other powerful friends; and the young king of Scotland 
went so far as to bestow on him the hand of the lady 
Catherine Gordon, nearly allied to the royal family, and 
celebrated for her beauty. Shn reninined fondly attached 
to him through his reverses, when all England had for- 
saken him ; and it is said that the cold heart of Henry waa 
so softeni'd by her lovoUnes.c, constancy, and sorrow for 
her husband, that he relented in his bloody purpose, and 
instead of taking her life, its he had intended, placed her 
honorably in his queen's household. Warbeck had adopt- 
ed the title of the '■ Pale FtOse of Kiigl nld ;" but the people 
transferred it to her.— See Mackintosh's History of Eng- 
land, Philadelphia ed., p, 197. 



ELIZA L. FOLLEN. 



Eliza Lee Cabot, a native of Boston, was 
married on tlie fifteenth of September, 1828, 
to the amiable and learned Charles Pollen, 
J. U. D., of Germany, then of the Divinity 
School at Cambridge, and soon afterward 
professor of the German language and liter- 
ature in Harvard College. This union was 
eminently happy, and it continued more than 
eleven years. Dr. Folleu perished in the 
conflagration of the steamer Lexington, on 



the night of the thirteenth of January, 1840. 
Mrs. Follen is the author of several works 
in prose, of which the most important are 
Sketches of Married Life, The Skeptic, and 
a Life of Charles Follen, in one volume, pub- 
lished in Boston in 1844. She has also ed- 
ited the works of her husband, in four vol- 
umes. The larger part of her poems are 
contained in a volume published in Boston, 
in 1839. 



SACHEM'S HILL. 

Heiie, from this little hillock. 

In days long since gone by, 
Glanced over hill and valley 

The sachem's eagle eye : 
His were the pathless forests, 

And his the hills so blue. 
And on the restless ocean 

Danced only his canoe. 

Here stood the aged chieftain, 

Rejoicing in his glory : 
How deep tlie shade of sadness 

That rests upon his story ! 
For the white man came with power, 

Like brethren here they met — 
But the Indian fires went out, 

And the Indian sun has set. 

And the chieftain has departed, 

Gone is his hunting-ground. 
And the twanging of his bowstring 

Is a forgotten sound : 
Where dwelleth yesterday — and 

Where is echo's cell ] 
Where has the rainbow vanished 1 — 

There does the Indian dwell. 

But in the land of spirits 

The Indian has a place. 
And there, midst saints and angels, 

He sees his Maker's face : 
There from all earthly passions 

His heart may be retined. 
And the mists that once enshrouded 

Be Ufted from his mind. 

And should his freeborn spirit 

Descend again to earth. 
And here, unseen, revisit 

The spot that gave him birth. 
Would not his altered nature , 

Rejoice with rapture high, 



At the changed and glorious prospect 

That now would meet his eye 1 
Where nodded pathless forests. 

There now are stately domes ; 
Where hungry wolves were prowling. 

Are quiet, happy homes ; 
Where rose the savage warwhoop, 

vVre heard sweet village bells, 
And many a gleaming spire 

Of faith in Jesus tells. 
And he feels his soul is changed — 

'Tis there a vision glows 
Of more surpassing beauty 

Than earthly scenes disclose ; 
For the heart that felt revenge, 

With boundless love is filled. 
And the restless tide of passion 

To a holy calm is stilled. 
Here, to my mental vision. 

The Indian chief appears, 
And all my eager questions 

Fancy believes he hears : 
Oh, speak, thou unseen being. 

And the mighty secrets tell 
Of the land of deathless glories, 

Where the departed dwell ! 
I can not dread a spirit — 

For I would gladly see 
The veil uplifted round us. 

And know that such things be : 
The things we see are fleeting. 

Like summer flowers decay — 
The things unseen are real, 

And do not pass away. 
The friends we love so dearly 

Smile on us, and are gone, 
And all is silent in their place, 

And we are left alone ; 
But the joy " that passeth show," 

And the love no arm can sever, 
And all the treasures of their souls. 

Shall be with us for ever. 
121 



122 



ELIZA L. FOLLEN. 



WINTER SCENES IN THE COUNTRY. 

The short, dull, rainy day drew to a close ; 
No gleam burst forth upon the western hills, 
With smiling promise of a brighter day, 
Dressing the leafless woods with golden light ; 
Bat the dense fog hung its dark curtain round, 
And the unceasing rain poured like a torrent on. 
The wearied inmates of the house draw near 
The cheerful fire ; the shutters all are closed ; 
A brightening look spreads round, that seems to say, 
Now let the darkness and the rain prevail — 
Here all is bright ! How beautiful is the sound 
Of the descending rain ; how soft the wind 
Through the wet branches of the drooping elms : 
But hark ! far off, beyond the sheltering hills. 
Is heard the gathering tempest's distant swell, 
Threatening the peaceful valley ere it comes. 
The stream that ghded through its pebbly way, 
To its own sweet music, now roars hoarsely on ; 
The %voods send forth a deep and heavy sigh ; 
The gentle south has ceased ; the rude northwest, 
Eojoicing in his strength, comes rushmg forth : 
The rain is changed into a driving sleet. 
And when the fitful wind a moment lulls, 
The feathery snow, almost inaudible, 
Falls on the window-panes as soft and still 
As the light brnshings of an angel's wings, 
Or the sweet visitings of quiet thoughts 
Midst the wild tumult of this stormy life. 
The tightened strings of nature's ceaseless harp 
Send forth a shrill and piercing melody. 
As the full swell returns. The night comes on, 
And sleep, upon this little world of ours. 
Spreads out her sheltering, healing wings ; and man, 
The heaven-inspired soul of this fair earth — 
The bold interpreter of Nature's voice, 
Giving a language even to the stars — 
Unconscious of the throbbings of his heart, 
Is still : and all unheeded is the storm. 
Save by the wakeful few who love the night — 
Those pure and active spirits that are placed 
As guards o'er wayward man — they who show forth 
God's holy image on the soul impressed — 
They listen to the music of the storm, 
And hold high converse with the unseen world : 
They wake, and watch, and pray, while others sleep. 

The stormy night has passed ; the eastern clouds 
Glow with the morning's ray : but who shall tell 
1'he peerless glories of this winter day 1 
Nature has put her jewels on — one blaze 
Of sparkling light and ever-varying hues 
Bursts on the enraptured sight. 
The smallest twig with brilliants hangs its head ; 
The graceful elm and all the forest trees 
Have on a crystal coat of mail, and seem 
All decked and tricked out for a holyday. 
And every stone shines in its wreath of gems. 
The pert, familiar robin, as he flies 
From spray to spray, showers diamonds around. 



And moves in rainbow light where'er he goes 
The universe looks glad : but words are vain 
To paint the wonders of the splendid show. 
The heart exults with uncontrolled delight : 
The glorious pageant slowly moves away, 
As the sun sinks behind the western hills. 
So fancy, for a short and fleeting day. 
May shed upon the cold and barren earth 
Her bright enchantments and her dazzling hues ; 
And thus they melt and fade away, and leave 
A cold and dull reality behind. 

But see where, in the clear, unclouded sky, 
The crescent moon, with calm and sweet rebuke. 
Doth charm away the spirit of complaint : 
Her tender light falls on the snow-clad hills, 
Like the pure thoughts that angels might bestow 
Upon this world of beauty and of sin. 
That mingle not with that whereon they rest : 
So should immortal spirits dwell below. 
There is a holy influence in the moon. 
And in the countless hosts of silent stars, 
The heart can not resist : its passions sleep. 
And all is still, save that which shall awake 
When all this vast and fair creation sleeps. 



EVENING. 

The sun is set, the day is o'er, 
And labor's voice is heard no more ; 
On high the silver moon is hung ; 
The birds their vesper hymns have sung. 
Save one, who oft breaks forth anew. 
To chant another sweet adieu 
To all the glories of the day. 
And all its pleasures past away. 
Her twilight robe all nature wears, 
And evening sheds her fragrant tears, 
Which every thirsty plant receives. 
While silence trembles on its leaves : 
From every tree and every bush 
There seems to breathe a soothing hush, 
While every transient sound but shows 
How deep and .still is the repose. 
Thus calm and fair may all things be, 
W^hen life's last sun has set with me ; 
And may the lamp of memory shine 
As sweetly on my day's decline 
As yon pale crescent, pure and fair, 
That hangs so safely in the air. 
And pours her mild, reflected light. 
To soothe and bless the weary sight : 
And may my spirit often wake 
Like thine, sweet bird, and, singing, take 
Another farewell of the sun — 
Of pleasures past, of labors done. 
See, where the glorious sun has set, 
A line of hght is lingering yet ; 
Oh, thus may love awhile illume 
The silent darkness of my tomb ! 



FRANCES H. GREEN. 



Frances Harriet Whipple, now Mrs. 
Green, was born in Smithfield, Rhode Is- 
land, and is descended from two of the oldest 
and most honorable families of that state. 
While she was very young, her father, JMr. 
George Whipple, lost by various misfortunes 
his estate, and she was therefore left to her 
own resources for support and for the culti- 
vation of her fine understanding, of which 
some of the earliest fruits were poems print- 
ed in the gazettes from 1S30 to 1S35. Her 
first volume was Memoirs of Eleanor El- 
bridge, a colored woman, of which there 
were sold more than thirty thousand copies. 
In 1841 she published The Mechanic, a book 
addressed to the operatives of the country, 
which was much commended in Mr. Brown- 
son's Boston Quarterly Review. In 1844 she 
gave to the public Might and Right, a histo- 
ry of the attempted revolution in Rhode Is- 
land, known as the Dorr Insurrection. Dur- 
ing a part of the year 1842 she conducted 
The Wampanoag, a journal designed for the 
elevation of the laboring portion of the com- 
munity, and she has since been a large con- 
tributor to what are called "reform periodi- 
cals," particularly The Nineteenth Century, 
a quarterly miscellany, and The Univercce- 
lum and Spiritual Philosopher, a paper " de- 
voted to philosophico-theology, and an expo- 
sition and inculcation of the principles of 
Nature, in their application to individual and 
social life." In the autumn of 1848 she be- 
came editress of The Young People's Journal 
of Science, Literature, and Art, a monthly 
magazine of an attractive character, printed 
in New York. 

One of the best known of Mrs. Green's po- 
ems is The Dwarf's Story, a gloomy but pas- 
sionate and powerful composition, which ap- 
peared in The Pvhode Island Book, in 1841. 
The longest and most carefully finished is 
Nantmtenoo, a Legend of the Narragansetts, 
in six cantos, of which the first, second and 
third were published in Philadelphia in 1848. 
This is a work of decided and various merit. 
We have few good poems upon aboriginal 
superstition, tradition, or history. The best 



are Yamoyden, by Sands and Eastbum, Mogg 
Megone, by Whittier, the Legend of the An- 
dirondach Mountains, by Hoffman, Yonondio, 
by Hosmer, Nemahmin, by Louis L. Noble, 
and Mrs. Green's Nanuntenoo, with which, 
— though it is not yet published — may be 
classed Mr. Street's admirable romance of 
Frontenac. In Nanuntenoo are shown de- 
scriptive powers scarcely inferior to those 
of Bryant and Carlos Wilcox, who have been 
most successful in painting the grand, beau- 
tiful, and peculiar scenery of New England. 
The rhythm is harmonious, and the style gen- 
erally elegant and poetically ornate. In the 
delineations of Indian character and adven- 
ture, we see fruits of an intelligent study of 
the colonial annals, and a nice apprehension 
of the influences of external nature in psycho- 
logical development. It is a production that 
will gratify attention by the richness of its 
fancy, the justness of its reflection, and its 
dramatic interest. 

The minor poems of Mrs. Green are nu- 
merous, and they are marked by idiosyncra- 
cies which prove them fruits of a genuine 
inspiration. Her Songs of the Winds, and 
sketches of Indian life, from both of which 
series specimens are given in the following 
pages, are frequently characterized by a mas- 
culine energy of expression, and a minute 
observation of nature. Though occasionally 
diffuse, and illustrated by epithets or images 
that will not be approved, perhaps, by the 
most fastidious tastes, they have meaning in 
them, and the reader is not often permitted 
to forget the presence of the power and deli- 
cacy of the poetical faculty. 

Mrs. Green has perhaps entered more 
largely than any of her countrywomen into 
discussions of religion, philosophy, and pol- 
itics. Her views are frequently original and 
ingenious, and they are nearly always stated 
with clearness and maintained with force of 
logic and felicity of illustration. A consid- 
eration of them would be more appropriate in 
a reviewal of her prose-writings. Their pe- 
culiarities are not disclosed in her poems, of 
which the only law is the sense of beauty. 

123 



124 



FRANCES H. GREEN. 



NEW ENGLAND SUMMER IN THE AN- 
CIENT TIME. 

FROM THE FIRST CANTO OF "NANnNTENOO." 

Stillness of summer noontide over hill, 
And deep embowering wood, and rock, and stream, 
Spread forth her downy pinions, scattering sleep 
Upon the drooping eyelids of the air. 
No wind breathed through the forest, that could stir 
The lightest foliage. If a rustling sound 
Escaped the trees, it might be nestling bird. 
Or else the polished leaves were turning back 
To their own natural places, whence the wind 
Of the last hour had Hung them. From afar 
Came the deep roar of waters, yet subdued 
To a melodious murmur, like the chant 
Of naiads, ere they take their noontide rest. 
A tremulous motion stirred the aspen leaves. 
And from their shivering stems an utterance came, 
So delicate and spirit-like, it seemed 
The soul of music breathed, without a voice. 
The anemone bent low her drooping head, 
Mourning the absence of her truant love, 
Till the soft languor closed her sleepy eye, 
To dream of zephyrs from the fragrant south, 
Coming to wake her with renewed life. 
The eglantine breathed perfume ; and the rose 
Cherished her reddening buds, that drank the light, 
Fair as the vermil on the cheek of Hope. 
Where'er in sheltered nook or quiet dell. 
The waters, like enamored lovers, found 
A thousand sweet excuses for delay. 
The clustering lilies bloomed upon their breast. 
Love-tokens from the naiads, when they came 
To trifle with the deep, impassioned waves. 

The wild bee, hovering on voluptuous wing, 
Scarce murmured to the blossom, drawing thence 
Slumber with honey; then in the purpling cup, 
As if oppressed with sweetness, sank to sleep. 
I^he wood-dove tenderly caressed his mate; 
Each looked within the other's drowsy eyes. 
Till outward objects melted into dreams. 

The rich vermilion of the tanager, 
Or summer red-bird, flashed amid the green. 
Like rubies set in richest emerald. 
On some tall maple sat the oriole, 
In black and orange, by his pendent nest. 
To cheer his brooding mate with whispered songs ; 
While high amid the loftiest hickory 
Perched the loquacious jay, his turquoise crest 
Low drooping, as he plumed his shining coat, 
Rich with the changeful blue of Nazareth. 
And higher yet, amid a towering pine. 
Stood the fierce hawk, half-slumbering, half-awake, 
His keen eye flickering in his dark unrest. 
As if he sought for plunder in his dreams. 

The scaly snake crawled lazily abroad. 
To revel in the sunshine ; and the hare 
Stole from her leafy couch, with ears erect 
Against the soft air-current ; then she crept. 
With a light, velvet footfall, through the ferns. 
The squirrel stayed his gambols ; and the songs 
Which late through all the forest arches rang, 
Were graduated to a harmony 
Of rudimental music, breathing low, 
Making the soft wind richer — as the notes 



Had been dissolved, and mingled with the air. 
Pawtucket almost slumbered, for his waves 
Were lulled by their own chanting : breathing low, 
With a just-audible murmur, as the soul 
Is stirred in visions with a thought of love, 
He whispered back the whisper tenderly 
Of the fair willows bending over him, 
With a light hush upon their stirring leaves, 
Blest watchers o'er his day-dreams. Not a sign 
Of man or his abode met ear or eye. 
But one great wilderness of living wood. 
O'er hill, and cliflf, and valley, swelled and waved, 
An ocean of deep verdure. By the rock 
Whichboundandstrengthen'dalltheirmassive roots 
Stood the great oak and giant sycamore ; 
Along the water-courses and the glades 
Rose the fair maple and the hickory ; 
And on the loftier heights the towering pine — 
Strong guardians of the forest — standing there. 
On the old ramparts, sentinels of Time, 
To watch the flight of ages. Indian hordes. 
The patriarchs of Nature, wandered free ; 
While every form of being spake to them 
Of the Great Spirit that pervaded all, 
And curbed their fiery nature with a law 
Written in light upon the shadowy soil — 
Bowing their sturdy hearts in reverence 
Before the Great Unseen yet Ever Felt ! 
The very site where villages and towns, 
As if called forth by magic, have uprisen ; 
Where now the anvils echo, hammers clank, 
The hum of voices in the stirring mart. 
And roar of dashing wheels, create a din 
That almost rivals the old cataract — 
As if its thunder had grown tired and hoarse 
In striving to be heard above the din — 
Two centuries gone, was one unbroken wild. 
Where the fierce wolf, the panther, and the snake, 
A forest aristocracy, scarce feared 
The monarch man, and shared his common lot — 
To hunger, plunder from the weak, and slay ; 
To wake a sudden terror ; then lie down. 
To be unnamed — unknown — for evermore. 



A NARRAGANSETT SACHEM, 

FROM THE SAME. 

A FOOTFALL broke the silence, as along 
Pawtucket's bank an Indian warrior passed. 
Awed by the solemn stillness, he had paused 
In deep, reflecting mood. A nobler brow 
Ne'er won allegiance from Roman hosts. 
Than his black plume half shaded ; nor a form 
Of kinglier bearing, moulded perfectly. 
E'er flashed on day-dreams of Praxiteles. 
The mantle that o'er one broad shoulder hung. 
Was broidercd with such trophies a? are worn 
By sachems only. Ghastly rows of teeth 
Glistened amid the w^ampum. On the edge 
A lace of woven scalp-locks was inwrought. 
Where the soft, glossj' brown of white man's hair 
Mingled with Indian tresses, dark and harsh. 
The wampum-belt, of various lines inwrought, 
Graced well his manly bosom ; and below, 
His taper limbs met the rich moccasin. 



FRANCES H. GREEN. 



125 



SASSACUS.' 

The orient sun was coming proudly up. 
And looking o'er the Atlantic gloriously ; 
Old Ocean's bosom felt the living rays ; 
A rich smile flashed up from his hoary cheek, 
Subduing pride with beauty, as he turned. 
In each clear wave, a mirror to the sky ; 
And Earth was beautiful, as when, of erst, 
In the young freshness of her vestal morn, 
She wore the dew-gems in her bridal crown, 
And met, and won, the exulting lord of Day. 

The beauty-loving Mystic wound along 
Through the green meadows, as if led by Taste, 
That knew and sought the purest emerald. 
And had the art of finding fairest flowers; 
While his young brother, Thames, enrobed in light, 
Lingered with sparkling eddies round the shore. 
The sea-bird's snowy wing was tinged with gold, 
And scarcely wafted on the ambient air, 
As, lightly poised, she hung above the deep, 
And looked beneath its crystal. With a scream 
Of wild delight at all the wealth she saw, 
Down like a flake of living snow she plunged ; 
Then, momently upgleaniing, like a burst 
Of winged light from the waters, shaking off 
The Uquid pearls from all her downy plumes, 
She soared in triumph to her wave-girt nest. 

The spirit of the morning over all 
Went with a quickening presence, fair and free, 
Till every beetling crag, and sterile rock. 
And swamp, and wilderness, and desert ground. 
Were instinct with her glory. Moss and fern. 
And clinging vine, and all unnumbered trees, 
That make the woods a paradise, were stirred 
By whispering zephyrs, and shook off the dew ; 
While fragi'ance rose, like incense, to the skies. 
The soft May wind was breathing through the wood, 
Calling the sluggish buds to light and life — 
As, stealing softly through the silken bonds. 
It freed the infant leaf, and gently held 
Its trembling greenness in his lambent arms. 
The eagle from his cloud-wreathed eyry sprang. 
Soaring aloft, as he had grown in love, 
Aspiring to the lovely Morning-Star, 
That lately vanished mid the kindling depths 
Of saflron-azure ; and the smaller birds 
Plumed the bright wing with sweetest carolings, 
Instinctive breath of joy, and love, and praise. 

No sound of hostile legions marred the scene ; 
Trumpet and war-cry, sword and battle-axe, 
With all their horrid din, were far away, 
And gentle Peace sat, queenlike — Was it so 1 

* On a morning of ^^a3■. 1G37, the Eii2li?h, under Major 
John Miison, attacked the fort of Mystic, one of the strong- 
holds of Sassacus. The [ndians, believing' the enemy afar, 
had sung and danced till midnight ; and the depth of their 
moniing slumbers made them an easy prey. " The resist- 
ance," says Thatcher, "was manly and desperate, but the 
work of destruction was completed in little more than an 
hour." And again, " Seventy wigwams were burnt, and 
five or six hundred Pequots killed. Parent and child alike, 
the sanop and squaw, the gray-haired man and the babe, 
were buried in one promiscuous ruin." Sassacus, flushed 
with conquest, with his followers returned just in time to 
witness titc expiring tlames. After this, the fortunes of 
the sachem rapidly declined ; and when bis own hatchets 
were turned against him, he tied with Mononotto to the 
Mohawks, by whom he was treacherously murdered. 



Behold yon smouldering ruin ! Lo, yon height I 
The Pequot there his simple fortress reared, 
And there he slept in peace but yester-eve. 
And his fair dreams spake not of coming death ! 
Where are the hundred dwellers of this spot — 
The parents, children, and the household charms. 
That woke a soft, familiar magic here 1 
The crackling cinders — one chaotic mass 
Of death and ruin — utter all the wrong, 
In their deep, voiceful silence. Fire and sword. 
Sped by the Yengees' hate, have only left 
The ashes of the beautiful ; or, worse, 
The mangled type of each familiar form. 
Looks grimly through the horrid mask of death ! 

There slumbers all that woke a thrill of love 
In the firm warrior's bosom. Death stole on. 
Swift in the track of Gladness ; and young hearts. 
Yet quick with rapture, in the halcyon dreams 
Of youth, and love, and hope, awoke — to die. 
They grappled with the subtile element, 
Then rushed on lance, and spear, and naked sword, 
To quench with their hot blood the torturing flames. 
The few strong warriors had grown desperate ; 
But desperation could not long avail — ■ 
And nerveless valor fall beside the weak. 
Mothers and children, aged men and strong, 
Bore the fierce tortures of dissolving life. 
And all consumed together ; till, at last, 
The feeble wail of dying infancy — ■ 
A muttering curse — a groan but half respired — 
A prayer for vengeance on the subtle foe — 
Were lost amid the wildly-crackling flames : 
Then the mute smoke went upward. All was still, 
Save the sweet harmonies that Nature woke, 
Careless of man's destruction, or his pangs. 

But hark ! the tramp of warriors I They come ! 
Their loving thoughts, winged heralds, sent before 
To dear ones clustering in their wigwams' shade, 
That wooing them from the memory of their toils, 
To watch their soft repose with eyes of love ; 
While sweet anticipation sketches forth 
One sunny hour of joy encircling all — 
The rainbow-blessing of their clouded life — 
More bright, more heavenly, for the gloom it gilds. 

But is there joy in that wildly piercing cry 1 
The agonizing consciousness of wrong. 
Not graduated, but with one fell scath. 
Blasts now, like sudden lightning ; and the fire 
Awakes the latent sulphur of the soul ! 
The horrid truth, in all its length, and breadth, 
And height, and depth, before them lies revealed, 
An utter desolation. They are mad : 
Or more or less than man might not be so. 

Great Sassacus draws nigh. The panther-skin 
Parts from his bosom, and the tomahawk 
Is flung off, with the quiver and the bow. 
No word he utters; for the marble lip 
May give to sound no passage ; but his eye 
Looks forth in horror : all its liquid fires 
Shoot out a crystal gleam, like icicles — 
And not a single nerve is stirring now 
In the still features, frozen with their pride ; 
But, 'neath the brawny folding of his arms. 
The seamed and scarry chest is heaving up, 
Like a disturbed volcano. All he loved 



126 



FRANCES H. GREEN. 



Sleep in the arms of Ruin. There they lie. 

He knew that he was reverenced as a god — 

That on the roll of heroes, prouder name, 

Or clothed with mightier majesty, was not, 

Than Sassacus the Ten'ible. That name 

The lironzed cheek of the warrior would blanch ; 

There was a magic in its very sound 

That made the bravest blood turn pale as milk, 

And curdle in its passage. Sassacus ! — 

When those dire syllables were uttered loud, 

The vulture clapped her wings, and gave a scream, 

By instinct scenting the far field of Death. 

At his fell war-cry down the eagle came, 

To perch upon some overhanging cliif. 

And glory in his glory. Her response 

Echoed afar the tlirilling call to strife. 

As on her lofty battlements she sat, 

Like some wild spirit of a kindred power. 

Such was the fame that burnished his dark crest, 

Such were the signs that marked the chief a god. 

Had HE a weakness that could yield to grief, 

The strong — the mighty — the invincible 1 

May he not rend affection from his heart, 

Or trifle with his passions ? 

On he went 
With half-averted eye — as what he sought 
Among those mangled forms he durst not find. 
Sudden there came a shadow o'er his brow — 
An awful spirit to his flaming eye : 
He stood before his threshold. Stretched across, 
As the last horrid blow had checked her flight, 
Lay his weak, gray-haired mother. Just below, 
A pair of round arms, clinging to her knees, 
Alone vpere left to tell him of his babe. 
With one long, earnest, agonizing thought. 
He gazed to gather strength for fiercer pangs ; 
Then faltering step sped onward ; but again 
Abruptly pauses, for his form is fixed, 
Like some dark granite statue of Despair. 

The delicate proportions, fair and soft, 
Of his young wife, came suddenly to view — 
Unmarred, as if to aggravate the more. 
Save by one cruel wound beneath lier hair 
Upon the upturned forehead. Can it be 
The gay young creature he but left at eve. 
So very beautiful, is sleeping thus — - 
Cold — cold in death — irrevocably gone 1 
Rememhereth not that shadowy maze of hair 
How dotingly he wreathed it yesterday t — 
Or that fair, ruby lip the tender kiss 
That won him back, when he had turned away, 
With all its tempting sweetness 7 She is dead ; 
And all her garments and her flowing hair 
Are dank and heavy with the waste of blood ! 
Her arms are folded on her marble breast, 
A lovely, but an ineffectual shield ; 
The lids are lifted, and the parting lips 
Are curved beseechingly, as when they sued 
For mercy from the murderer — in vain ! 

He looked upon her, as if life would burst 
In one long, agonizing, phrensied gaze ; 
The blasting sight was madness : then he laughed, 
In utter desperation, utter scorn ! 
He knew that Fate herself might never crush 
A soul that could endure such pangs, and live ! 



Why starts he, as some yet-untroubled nerve 
Had quickened for the torture ? Hush ! a wail 
From yonder dying child ! — Can that arrest 
A pride that seemed to glory in its pangs ? 
Oh, gracious God ! his first-born, darling child. 
Whom he had nurtured with a chieftain's pride, 
And doated on with all a father's love, 
Lies at his feet — though mangled, living still. 
A rapturous pang of momentary joy. 
That this one, dearest treasure, yet might be 
Spared to his bosom, shot through heart and soul ! 
The struggling hope, in bitter mockery, 
A meteor on the midnight of despair. 
Lived for an instant — quivered — vanished — died — 
Leaving more utter blackness. Ere he bent 
To lift the little sufferer in his arms. 
The livid type of death was on his brow. 
One look of recognition, full of power — 
The agonizing power of love in death — 
Sped from the dying. With a piteous moan, 
As if to show how much he had endured, 
He lifted up his little mangled arm, [died : 

And murmuring, " Father !" struggled, gasped, and 
And Sassacus was martyred o'er again ! 

He breathed no prayer, he spoke no malison — 
But one hand lifted up the mangled boy 
With the firm grasp of madness nerved to steel ; 
And in the other his sharp battle-axe 
He swung above him with a dizzening whirl, 
And thundered out the war-cry ! Then they turned 
To the fell work of vengeance and of death. 

.\gain I marked the warrior. He stood 
Among the scenes of early triumph, where 
His soul first wedded Glory — on the spot 
Where, on his high hereditaiy throne. 
He poised a sceptre that could sway the free : 
Was yonder broken-hearted man a king ? — 
Forsaken, wretched, desolate, and crushed — ■ 
Hunted through all his fair paternal woods — 
His own knives turned by Treason to his breast ! 
In the wide earth without a single friend, 
Alone he standeth — like the blasted oak. 
Mocked by the greenness that was once his own ; 
A mighty ruin in a pleasant place — 
A ruin, storm, or tempest, could not bow, 
And waiting for the earthquake ! It shall come. 

Where are his kindred 1 Yonder ashy mound 
Looks forth at once their tomb and their epitaph. 
His followers'! — They are fallen, or fled, or slaves. 
His land 1 — He has none. And his peaceful home ? 
The mighty outcast is denied a grave ! 
His fathers' land — his own — contains no spot 
Where he of right may lay his body down 
To the long sleep his broken nature craves ! 
The white man's voice is echoing on his hills ; 
The white man's axe is ringing through his woods ; 
And he is banished — ah ! he recks not where. 

His step hath lost its firm, elastic tone, 
But it hath caught a majesty from wo. 
Such as would crush to atoms meaner hearts ! 
His features are like granite ; but his brow, 
Like the rude cliff on the volcano's front, 
Is haggard with the conflict — written o'er 
With the fell history of his burning wrongs. 
The snow is falling ; but he heedeth not — 



FRANCES H. GREEN. 



137 



It is not colder than his stricken heart. 

Behold him clinging to that little mound, 

As if the senseless earth, that covers o'er 

The ashes of the beautiful, might feel 

The last strong heart-throbs that are beating there 

Against its icy bosom. Doth he weep ] — 

A few hot tears, yet freezing as they fall, 

Are mingling with the hail-drops. It is o'er — 

His first, last weakness. Yonder rigid form — 

'T is Mononotto — beckons him away. 



SONG OF THE NORTH WIND. 

From: the home of Thor, and the land of Hun, 

Where the valiant frost-king defies the sun, 

Till he, like a coward, slinks away 

With the spectral glare of his meager day — 

And throned in beauty, peerless Night, 

In her robe of snow and her crown of Ught, 

Sits queenlike on her icy throne. 

With frost-flowers in her pearly zone — 

And the fair Aurora floating free, 

Round her form of matchless symmetry — 

An irised mantle of roseate hue, 

With the gold and hyacinth melting through ; 

And from her forehead, beaming far, 

Looks forth her own true polar star. 

From the land we love — our native home — 

On a mission of wrath we come, we come ! 

Away, away, over earth and sea ! 

Unchained, and chainless, we are free ! 

As we fly, our strong wings gather force, 
To rush on our overwhelming course ; 
We have swept the mountain and walked the main, 
And now, in our strength, we are here again ; 
To beguile the stay of this wintry hour. 
We are chanting our anthem of pride and power; 
And the listening earth turns deadly pale — 
Like a sheeted corse, the silent vale 
Looks forth in its robe of ghastly white, 
As now we rehearse our deeds of might. 
The strongest of God's sons are we — 
Unchained, and chainless, ever free ! 

We have looked on Hecla's burning brow. 
And seen the pines of Norland bow 
In cadence to our deafening roar. 
On the craggy steep of the Arctic shore ; [flood, 
We have waltzed with the maelstrom's whirling 
And curdled the current of human blood. 
As nearer, nearer, nearer, drew 
The struggling bark to the boiling blue — 
Till, resistless, urged to the cold death-clasp, 
It writhes in the hideous monster's grasp — 
A moment — and then the fragments go 
Down, down, to the fearful depths below ! 
But away, away, over land and sea — 
Unchained, and chainless, we are free ! 

We have startled the poising avalanche. 
And seen the cheek of the mountain blanch. 
As down the giant Ruin came. 
With a step of wrath and an eye of flame ; 
Hurling destruction, death, and wo. 
On all around and all below, 
Till the piUng rocks and the prostrate wood 



Conceal the spot where the village stood ; 
And the choking waters vainly try 
From their strong prison-hold to fly ! 
We haste away, for our breath is rife 
With the groans of expiring human life ! 
Of that hour of horror we only may tell — 
As we chant the dirge and we ring the knell. 
Away, away, over land and sea — 
Unchained and chainless — we are free ! 

Full often we catch, as we hurry along. 
The clear-ringing notes of the Laplander's song, 
As, borne by his reindeer, he dashes away 
Through the night of the North, more refulgent 

than day ! 
We have traversed the land where the dark Es- 
quimaux 
Looks out on the gloom from his cottage of snow ; 
Where in silence sits brooding the large milk-white 

owl, 
And the sea-monsters roar, and the famished wolves 

howl; 
And the white polar bear her grim paramour hails, 
As she hies to her tryste through throse crystalline 

vales. 
Where the Ice-Mountain stands, with his feet in 

the deep, 
That around him the petrified waters may sleep ; 
And light in a flood of refulgence comes down. 
As the lunar beams glance from his shadowless 

crown. 
We have looked in the hut the Kamschatkan hath 

reared. 
And taken old Behring himself by the beard. 
Where he sits like a giant in gloomy unrest. 
Ever driving asunder the East and the West. 
But we hasten away, over mountain and sea. 
With a wing ever chainless, a thought ever free ! 
From the parent soil we have rent the oak — 
His strong arms splintered, his sceptre broke ; 
For centuries he has defied our power. 
But we plucked him forth like a fragile flower. 
And to the wondering Earth brought down 
The haughty strength of his hoary crown. 
Away, away, over land and sea — 
Unchained and chainless — we are free ! 

We have roused the Storm from his pillow of air, 
And driven the Thunder-King forth from his lair ; 
We have torn the rock from the dizzening steep, 
And awakened the wilds fi'om their ancient sleep ; 
We have howled o'er Russia's desolate plains. 
Where death-cold silence ever reigns, 
Until we come, with our trumpet breath. 
To chant our anthem of fear and death ! 
The strongest of God's sons are we — 
Unchained and chainless — ever free ! 

We have hurled the glacier from his rest 
Upon Chamouni's treacherous breast ; 
And we scatter the product of human pride. 
As forth on the wing of the Storm we ride. 
To visit with tokens of fearful power 
The lofty arch and the beetling tower ; 
And we utter defiance, deep and loud. 
To the taunting voice of the bursting cloud ; 
And we laugh with scorn at the ruin we see : 
Then away we hasten — for we are free ! 



13S 



FRANCES H. GREEN. 



Old Neptune we call from his ocean-caves 
When for pastime we dance on the crested waves; 
And we heap the struggling billows high 
Agamst the deep gloom of the sky ; 
Then we plunge in the yawning depths beneath, 
And there on the heaving surges breathe, 
Till they toss the proud ship like a feather, 
And Light and Hope expire together; 
And the bravest cheek turns deadly pale 
At the cracking mast and the rending sail. 
As down, with headlong fury borne, 
Of all her strength and honors shorn, 
The good ship struggles to the last 
With the raging waters and howling blast. 
We hurry the waves to their 6nal crash. 
And the foaming floods to phrensy lash ; 
Then we pour our requiem on the billow. 
As the dead go down to their ocean pillow — 
Down — far down — to the depths below. 
Where the pearls repose and the sea-gems glow ; 
Mid the coral groves, where the sea-fan waves 
Its palmy wand o'er a thousand graves, 
And the insect weaves her stony shroud. 
Alike o'er the humble and the proud. 
What can be mightier than we. 
The strong, the chainless, ever free ! 

Now away to our home in the sparkling North, 
For the Spring fi'om her South-land is looking forth. 
Away, away, to our arctic zone. 
Where the Frost-King sits on his flashing throne, 
AVith his icebergs piled up mountain high, 
A wall of gems against the sky — 
Where the stars look forth like wells of light. 
And the gleaming snow-crust sparkles bright ! 
We are fainting now for the breath of home ; 
Our journey is finished — we come, we come ! 
Away, away, over land and sea — 
Unchained and chainless — ever free ! 



SONG OF THE EAST WIND. 

From the border of the Ganges 
Where the gentle Hindoo laves, 

And the sacred cow is grazing 
By the holy Indian waves. 

We have hastened to enrol us 

In thy royal train, ^olus ! 

We have stirred the soul of Brahma, 
Bathed the brow of Juggernaut, 

Filled the self-devoted widow 

With a high and holy thought — 

And sweet words of comfort spoken. 

Ere the earth-wrought tie was broken ! 

We have nursed a thousand blossoms 

In that land of light and flowers. 
Till we fainted with the perfume 

That oppressed the slumbering Hours- 
Dallied with the vestal tresses 
Which no mortal hand caresses ! 

We have traced the wall of China 

To the farthest orient sea ; 
Blessed the grave of old Confucius 

With our sweetest minsti'elsy ; 



Swelled the bosom of the Lama 
To enact his priestly drama. 

We have hurried off the monsoons 

To far islands of the deep. 
Where, oppressed with richest spices, 

All the native breezes sleep ; 
And in Ophir's desert olden 
Stirred the sands all bright and golden. 

On the brow of Chumularee, 

Lottiest summit of the world. 
We have set a crown of vapor. 

And the radiant snow-wreath furled ; 
Bid the gem-lit waters flow 
From the mines of Borneo. 
Sighing through the groves of banyan. 

We have blessed the holy shade. 
Where the sunbeams of the zenith 

To a moonhke lustre fade ; 
There the fearful anaconda 
And the dark chimpanzee wander ! 

We have roused the sleeping jackal 
From his stealthy noontide rest ; 

Swelled the volume of deep thunder 
In the lion's tawny breast. 

Till all meaner beasts fled quaking 

At the desert-monarch's waking. 

O'er the sacred land of Yemen, 
Where the first apostles trod. 

And the patriarch and prophet 
Stood before the face of God — 

Vital with the deepest thought. 

Holy memories we have brought. 

We have bowed the stately cedar 

On the brow of Lebanon, 
And on Sinai's hoary forehead 

Turned the gray moss to the sun ; 
Paused where Horeb's shade reposes. 
Rifled Sharon's crown of roses. 

We have blessed the chosen city 

From the brow of Olivet, 
Where the meek and holy Jesus 

With his tears the cold earth wet — 
Conquering all the hosts infernal 
With those blessed drops fraternal. 

We have gathered sacred legends 

From the tide of Galilee ; 
Lingered where the waves of Jordan 

Meet the dark, unconscious sea ; 
Murmured round the Htemian mountains. 
Stirred Bethulia's placid fountains. 

On thy sod, Gethsemane, 

We have nursed the passion-flower. 
Stained with all the fearful conflict 

Of the Savior's darkest hour ; 
Stirred the shadows dense and deep 
Over Calvary's awful steep. 

We have breathed upon Parnassus, 
Till his softening lip of snow 

Bent to kiss the fair Castalia, 
That lay murmuring below — • 

Then, mid flowers, went sighing on 

Through the groves of Helicon. 



FRANCES H. GREEN. 



139 



We have touched the lone acacia 
With the utterance of a sigh ; 

Tossed the dark, umbrageous pakn-crown 
Up against the cloudless sky ; 

And along the sunny slope 

Chased the bright-eyed antelope. 

We have kissed the cheek of Beauty 
In the harem's guarded bowers, 

Where, amid their splendor sighing, 
Droop the loveliest human flowers — 

And the victim of brute passion 

Languishes the fair Circassian. 

We have summoned from the desert 

Giant messengers of Death, 
Treading with a solemn cadence 

To the purple simoom's breath — 
Wearing in their awful ire 
Crown of gold and robe of fire. 

We have traversed mighty ruins 
Where the splendors of the Past, 

In their solitary grandeur, 

Shadows o'er the Present cast — 

Voiceful with the sculptured story 

Of Egypta's ancient glory. 

We have struck the harp of Memnon 

With melodious unrest, 
When the tuneful sunbeams glancing. 

Warmed the statue's marble breast ; 
And Aurora bent with blessing, 
Her own sacred son caressing. 

Through the stately halls of Camac, 
Where the mouldering fragments chime 

Oil the thrilling chords of Ruin, 
To the silent march of Time, 

We have swept the dust away 

From the features of Decay. 

We have sighed a mournful requiem 
Through the cities of the Dead, 

Where, in all the Theban mountains. 
Couches of the tomb are spread ; 

Fanned the Nile ; and roused the tiger 

From his lair beyond the Niger. 

We have strayed from ancient Memphis, 
Where the Sphinx, with gentle brow. 

Seems to bind the Past and Future 
Into one eternal Now ; 

But we hear a deep voice calling — 

And the Pyramids are falling ! 

Even the wondrous pile of Ghirzeh 

Can not keep its royal dead, 
For the sleep of ages yieldeth 

To the busy plunderer's tread : 
Atom after atom — all — 
At the feet of Time must fall ! 

Prostrate thus we bend before thee, 

Mighty sovereign of the Air, 
While from all the teeming Orient 

Stories of the past we bear : 
Thou, great sire, wilt ever cherish 
Memories which can not perish ! 



A SONG OF WINTER. 

His gathering mantle of fleecy snow 
The winter-king wrapped around him ; 

And flashing with ice-wrought gems below 
Was the regal zone that bound him : 

He went abroad in his kingly state. 

By the poor man's door — by the palace-gate. 

Then his minstrel winds, on either hand. 
The music of frost-days humming, 

Flew fast before him through all the land. 
Crying, " Winter — Winter is coming !" 

And they sang a song in their deep, loud voice, 

That made the heart of their king rejoice ; 

For it spake of strength, and it told of power, 
And the mighty will that moved him ; 

Of all the joys of the fireside hour. 
And the gentle hearts that loved him ; 

Of affections sweetly interwrought 

With the play of wit and the flow of thought 

He has left his home in the starry North, 

On a mission high and holy ; 
And now in his pride he is going forth, 

To strengthen the weak and lowly — 
While his vigorous breath is on the breeze, 
And he lifts up Health from wan Disease. 

We bow to his sceptre's supreme behest ; 

He is rough, but never unfeeling; 
And a voice comes up from his icy breast, 

To our kindness ever appealing : 
By the comfortless hut, on the desolate moor. 
He is pleading earnestly for the poor. 

While deep in his bosom the heart lies warm, 
And there the future life he cherisheth ; 

Nor clinging root, nor seedling form. 
Its genial depths embracing, perisheth ; 

But safely and tenderly he will keep 

The delicate flower-gems while they sleep. 

The Mountain heard the sounding blast 
Of the winds from their wild horn blowing. 

And his rough cheek paled as on they passed. 
And the River checked his flowing ; 

Then, with ringing laugh and echoing shout, 

The merry schoolboys all came out. 

And see them now, as away they go, 
With the long, bright plane before them, 

In its sparkling girdle of silvery snow. 
And the blue arch bending o'er them ; 

While every bright cheek brighter grows. 

Blooming with health — our winter rose ! 

The shrub looked up, and the tree looked down. 
For with ice-gems each was crested ; 

And flashing diamonds lit the crown 
That on the old oak rested ; 

And the forest shone in gorgeous array. 

For the spirits of winter kept holyday. 

So on the joyous skaters fly, 

With no thought of a coming sorrow ; 
For never a brightly-beaming eye 

Has dreamed of the tears of to-morrow : 
Be free and be happy, then, while ye may, 
And rejoice in the blessing of to-day. 



130 



FRANCES H. GREEN. 



THE CHICKADEE'S SONG. 

On its downy wing, the snow, 
Hovering, flyeth to and fro — 
And the merry schoolboy's shout, 
Rich with joy, is ringing out: 
So we gather, in our glee, 
To the snow-drifts — Chickadee ! 

Poets sing in measures bold 
Of the glorious gods of old. 
And the nectar that they quaffed, 
When their jewelled goblets laughed; 
But the snow-cups best love we. 
Gemmed with sunbeams — Chickadee ! 

They who choose, abroad may go, 
Where the southern waters flow. 
And the flowers are never sere 
In the garland of the year; 
But we love the breezes free 
Of our north-land — -Chickadee ! 

To the cottage-yard we fly. 
With its old trees waving high. 
And the little ones peep out. 
Just to know what we 're about ; 
For they dearly love to see 
Birds in winter — Chickadee ! 

Every little feathered form 
Has a nest of mosses warm ; 
There our heavenly Father's eye 
Looketh on us from the sky ; 
And he knoweth where we be — 
And he heareth — Chickadee ! 

There we sit the whole night long. 
Dreaming that a spirit-song 
Whispereth in the silent snow ; 
For it has a voice we know, 
And it weaves our drapery, 
Soft as ermine — Chickadee ! 

All the strong winds, as they fly. 
Rock us with their lullaby — 
Rock us till the shadowy Night 
Spreads her downy wings in flight : 
Then we hasten, fresh and free, 
To the snow-fields— Chickadee ! 

Where our harvest sparkles bright 
In the pleasant morning light. 
Every little feathery flake 
Will a choice confection make — 
Each globule a nectary be. 
And we '11 drain it — Chickadee ! 

So we never know a fear 
In this season cold and drear ; 
For to us a share will fall 
Of the love that blesseth all ; 



And our Father's smile we see 
On the snow-crust — Chickadee ! 



THE HONEY-BEE'S SONG. 

Awake, and up ! our own bright star 

In the saffron east is fading. 
And the brimming honey-cups near and far 

Their sweets are fast unlading ; 
Softly, pleasantly, murmur our song. 
With joyful hearts, as we speed along ! 

Off to the bank where the wild thyme blows. 
And the fragrant bazil is grovring; 

We '11 drink from the heart of the virgin rose 
The nectar that now is flowing ; 

Sing, for the joy of the early dawn ! 

Murmur in praise of the beautiful mom ! 

Away, over orchard and garden fair. 
With the choicest sweets all laden, 

Away ! or before us she will be there, 
Our favorite blue-eyed maiden. 

Winning with Beauty's magic power . 

Rich guerdon from the morning hour. 

Her cheek will catch the rose's blush, 
Her eye the sunbeam's brightness ; 

Her voice the music of the thrush, 
Her heart the vapor's lightness ; 

And the pure, fresh spirit of the whole 

Shall fill her quick, expanding soul. 

Joy, for our queen is forth to-day ! 

Brave hearts rally about her ; 
Guard her well on her flowery way. 

For we could not live without her ! 
Now drink to the health of our lady true 
In a crystal beaker of morning dew ! 

She will sit near by in the bending brake, 
So pleasant, and tall, and shady ; 

And the sweetest honey for her we '11 make — 
Our own right-royal lady ! 

We '11 gather rich stores from the flowering vine, 

And the golden horns of the columbme. 

We heed not the nettle-king's bristling spear. 
Though we linger not there the longest ; 

We extract his honey without a fear. 
For Love can disarm the strongest ; 

In the rank cicuta's poison-cell 

We know where the drops of nectar dwell ! 

Our Father has planted naught in vain — 
Though in some the honey is weaker ; 

Yet a drop in the worst may still be found 
To comfort the earnest seeker. 

Praise Him who giveth our daily food — 

And the Love that findeth all things good ! 



JESSIE G. McCARTEE. 



Jessie G. Bethune, a granddaughter of the 
celebrated Isabella Graham — a daughter of 
Divie Bethune, a New York merchant, whose 
life was a series of illustrations of the dignity 
and beaut}' of human nature — and a sister 
of the Rev. Dr. George W. Bethune, so well 
known as one of our most eloquent preach- 
ers and accomplished authors — was married 
at an early age to the ReT. Dr. McCartee, 



who for many years has been minister of the 
Reformed Dutch Church in Goshen, in the 
county of Orange, on the Hudson. She has 
published a few poems in the religious peri- 
odicals, and has written many more, for the 
joy the heavenly art yields to those who wor- 
thily cultivate it. All her compositions that 
we have read breathe of beauty, piety, and 
content. 



THE INDIAN MOTHER'S LAMENT. 

All sad amid the forest wild 

An Indian mother wept, 
And fondly gazed upon her child 

In death who coldly slept. 

She decked its limbs with trembling hand. 

And sang in accents low ; 
"Alone, alone, to the spirit-land. 

My darling, thou must go ! 

" I would that I might be thy guide 

To that bright isle of rest — 
To bear thee o'er the swelling tide, 

Clasped to my loving breast ! 

" I 've wrapped thee with the beaver's skin, 

To shield thee from the storm. 
And placed thy little feet within 

Thy snow-shoes soft and warm. 

" I 've given thee milk to cheer thy way, 

Mixed with the tears I weep ; 
Thy cradle, too, where thou must lay 

"Thy weary head to sleep. 

" I place the paddle near thy hand, 

To guide where waters flow ; 
For alone, alone, to the spirit's land, 

My darling, thou must go. 

" There bounding through the forests green. 

Thy fathers chase the deer. 
Or on the crystal lakes are seen 

The sleeping fish to spear. 

" And thou some chieftain's bride may be, 

My loved departing one : 
Say, wilt thou never think of me, 

So desolate and lone 1 

" I '11 keep one lock of raven hair 
Culled from thy still, cold brow — 

That when I, too, shall travel there, 
My daughter I may know. 

" But go ! — to join that happy band ; 

Vain is my fruitless wo ; 
For alone, alone, to the spirit's land, 

My darling, thou must go !" 



THE EAGLE OF THE FALLS. 

E.MPnEss of the broad Missouri ! 

Towering in thy storm-rocked nest, 
Gazing on the wild waves' fury — 

Wondrous is thy place of rest. 

Lofty trees thy throne embowering. 
Gloomy gulf around thine isle. 

Mists and spray above thee showering. 
Guard thee from the hunter's wile. 

Walls of snow-white foam surround it, 
Crowned with rainbows pure and bright, 

While the flinty rocks that bound it 
Guard thy mansion day and night. 

No Alhambra's royal splendor, 

Palaces of Greece or Rome, 
E'er could boast of hues so tender. 

Or of walls of snow-white foam. 

Yet this lofty scene of wonder 
Ne'er disturbs thine eagle gaze. 

Nor its mighty voice of thunder-j- 
'Tis the music of thy days. 

Of its voice thou art not weary, 

Of its waters dost not tire ; 
Ancient as thine own loved eyry, 

'Twas the chorus of thy sire. 

Songs of rapture loudly swelling 
Laud the monarch on his throne, 

But the music of thy dwelling 
Chants the praise of God alone. 

Let sultanas boast their fountains, 
Gardens decked with costly flowers : 

'Twas the Hand that built the mountains 
Formed for thee thy forest bowers. 

Queens may boast their halls of lightness, 
Blazing with the taper's rays — 

Crystal lamps of colored brightness. 
Dazzling to their feeble gaze : ' 

He who made the moon so lovely, 
Called the stars forth every one, 

Spread thine azure dome above thee. 
Radiant with its peerless sun ! 

131 



132 



JESSIE G. McCARTEE. 



Empress eagle ! spread thy pinions, 
Bathe thy breast in heaven's own light, 

Yet forsake not thy dominions — 
God himself has made them bright. 



THE DEATH OF MOSES. 

TjT.t> by his God, on Pisgah's height 

The pilgrim-prophet stood — 
When first fair Canaan blessed his sight. 

And Jordan's crystal flood. 

Behind him lay the desert ground 

His weary feet had trod ; 
While Israel's host encamped around, 

Still guarded by their God. 

With joy the aged Moses smiled 

On all his wanderings past, 
While thus he poured his accents mild 

Upon the mountain-blast : 

" I see them all before me now — 

The city and the plain. 
From where bright Jordan's waters flowi 

To yonder boundless main. 

" Oh ! there the lovely promised land 

With milk and honey flows ; 
Now, now my weary, murmuring band 

Shall find their sweet repose. 

" There gi'oves of palm and myrtle spread 

O'er valleys fair and wide ; 
The lofty cedar rears ils head 

On every mountain-side. 

" For them the rose of Sharon flings 

Her fragrance on the gale ; 
And there the golden lily springs, 

The lily of the vale. 

" Amid the olive's fruitful boughs 

Is heard a song of love, 
For there doth build and breathe her vows 

The gentle turtle-dove. 

" For them shall bloom the clustering vine, 
The fig-tree shed her flowers, 

The citron's golden treasures shine 
From ouS her greenest bowers. 

" For them, for them, but not for me — 

Their fruits I may not eat ; 
Not Jordan's stream, nor yon bright sea, 

Shall lave my pilgrim feet. 

" 'T is well, 't is well, my task is done. 

Since Israel's sons are blest : 
Father, receive thy dying one 

To thine eternal rest !" 

Alone he bade the world farewell, 

To God his spirit fled. 
Now to your tents, O Israel, 

And mourn your prophet dead I 



HOW BEAUTIFUL IS SLEEP! 

How beautiful is sleep ! 
Upon its mother's breast. 
How sweet the infant's rest ! 
And who but she can tell how dear 
Her first-born's breathings 'tis to hear^ 

Gentle babe, prolong thy slumbers, 

When the moon her light doth shed ; 

Still she rocks thy cradle-bed. 
Singing in melodious numbers, 

Lulling thee with prayer or hymn, 

When all other eyes are dim. 

How beautiful is sleep ! 
Behold the merry boy : 
His dreams are full of joy ; 
He breaks the stillness of the night 
With tuneful laugh of wild delight. 

E'en in sleep his sports pursuing 

Through the woodland's leafy wild. 

Now he roams a happy child, 
Flowrets all his pathway strewing; 

And the morning's balmy air 

Brings to him no toil or care. 

How beautiful is sleep ! 
Where youthful Jacob slept, 
Angels their bright watch kept, 
And visions to his soul were given 
That led him to the gate of heaven. 

Exiled pilgrim, many a morrow. 

When thine earthly schemes were crossed, 
Mourning o'er thy loved and lost. 

Thou didst sigh with holy sorrow 
For that blessed hour of prayer. 
And exclaim, " God met me there !" 

How blessed was that sleep 
The sinless Savior knew ! 
In vain the storm-winds blew. 
Till he awoke to others' woes. 
And hushed the billows to repose. 

Why did ye the Master waken 1 
Faithless ones ! there came an hour. 
When, alone in mountain bower. 

By his loved ones all forsaken. 
He was left to pray and weep, 
When ye all were wrapped in sleep. 

How beautifiJ is sleep — 
The sleep that Christians know ! 
Ye mourners, cease your wo, 
While soft upon his Savior's breast 
The righteous sinks to endless rest. 

Let him go : the day is breaking ! 

Watch no more around his bed. 

For his parted soul hath fled. 
Bright will be his heavenly waking. 

And the mom that greets his sight 

Never ends in death or night. 



CYNTHIA TAGGART. 



The painfully interesting history of this 
unfortunate woman has been written by the 
Rev. James C. Richmond, in a little work 
entitled The Rhode Island Cottage, and in a 
brief autobiography prefixed to the editions 
of her poems published in 1834 and 1848. 
She is the daughter of a soldier, whose prop- 
erty was destroyed during the Revolution, 
and who died in old age and poverty at a 
place near the seashore, about six miles from 
Newport, where he had lived in pious resig- 
nation amid trials that would have wrecked 
a less vigorous and trustful nature. Miss 
Taggart's education was very slight, and im- 
til sickness deprived her of all other occupa- 
tion, about the year 1822, when she was nine- 
teen years of age, she appears never to have 
thought of literary composition. My friend 
Dr. John W. Francis writes to me of her : 
"An intimate acquaintance, derived from 
professional observation, has long rendered 
me well informed of the remarkable circum- 
stances connected with the severe chronic 
infirmities of Cynthia Taggart. From her 
early infancy, during the period of her ado- 
lescence, and indeed through the whole dura- 
tion of her life, she has been the victim of 
almost unrecorded anguish. The annals of 
medical philosophy may be searched in vain 
for a more striking example than the case 
of this lady afiTords of that distinctive twofold 
state of vitality with which we are endowed, 



the intellectual and the physical being. The 
precarious tenure by which they have con- 
tinued so long united in so frail a tenement, 
must remain matter of astonishment to ev- 
ery beholder ; and when reflection is sum- 
moned to the contemplation of the extraor- 
dinary manifestations of thought which un- 
der such a state of protracted and incurable 
suffering she often exhibits, psychological 
science encounters a' problem of most dif- 
ficult solution. Mind seems independent 
of matter, and intellectual trimnphs appear 
to be within the reach of eflforts tmaided by 
the ordinary resources of corporeal organiza- 
tion. That this condition must ere long ter- 
minate disastrously is certain ; yet the phe- 
nomena of mind amid the ruins of the body 
constitute a subject of commanding interest 
to every philanthropist. Churchill has truly 
said, in his epistle to Hogarth : 

' With curious art the brain too finely wrought. 
Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.' " 

Miss Taggart and a widowed sister, who 
is also an invalid, still live in their paternal 
home by the seashore, and they await with 
pious resignation the only change that can 
free them from suflTering. The poems that 
are here quoted have sufficient merit to in- 
terest the reader of taste, though he forget 
the extraordinary circumstances under which 
they were produced. Miss Taggart's poems 
have passed through three editions. 



ODE TO THE POPPY. 

Thodgh varied wreaths of myriad hues, 

As beams of mingling light. 
Sparkle replete with pearly dews, 
Waving their tinted leaves profiise, 

To captivate the sight ; 
Though fragrance, sweet exhaling, blend 

With the soft, balmy air. 
And gentle zephyrs, wafting wide 
Their spicy odors bear ; 
While to the eye, 
Delightingly, 
Each floweret laughing blooms, 
And o'er the fields 
ProUfic, yields 



Its increase of perfumes ; 
Yet one alone o'er all the plain. 

With lingering eye, I view ; 
Hasty I pass the brightest bower. 
Heedless of each attractive flower, 

Its brilliance to pursue. 

No odors sweet proclaim the spot 

Where its soft leaves unfold ; 
Nor mingled hues of beauty bright 
Charm and allure the captive sight 

With forms and tints untold. 
One simple hue the plant portrays 

Of glowing radiance rare, 
Fresh as the roseate mom displays, 

And seeming sweet and fair. 
133 



134 



CYNTHIA TAGGART. 



But closer pressed, an odorous breath 

Repels the rover gay ; 
And from her hand with eager haste 

'T is careless thrown away ; 
And thoughtless that in evil hour 
Disease may happiness devour, 
And her fairy form, elastic now, 
To Misery's wand may helpless bow. 

Then Reason leads wan Sorrow forth 

To seek the lonely ilower ; 
And blest Experience kindly proves 

Its mitigating power. 

Then its bright hue the sight can trace, 

The brilliance of its bloom ; 
Though misery veil the weeping eyes, 
Though sorrow choke the breath with sighs. 

And life deplore its doom. 

This magic flower 
In desperate hour 
A balsam mild shall yield, 

When the sad, sinking heart 
Feels every aid depart, 
And every gate of hope for ever sealed. 

Then still its potent charm 

Each agony disarm. 
And its all-healing power shall respite give : 

The frantic sufferer, then, 

Convulsed and wild with pain, 
Shall own the sovereign remedy, and live. 

The dews of slumber now 

Rest on her aching brow, 
And o'er the languid lids balsamic fall ; 

While fainting Nature hears, 

With dissipated fears, 
The lowly accents of soft Somnus' call. 

Then will Affection twine 
Around this kindly flower ; 

And grateful Memory keep 

How, in the arms of Sleep, 
Affliction lost its power. 



INVOCATION TO HEALTH. 

Heaith, thy succoring aid extend 
While low with bleeding heart I bend, 
And on thine every means attend, 

And sue with streaming eyes ; 
But more remote thou fliest away, 
The humbler I thine influence pray : 

And expectation dies. 

Twice three long years of life have gone, 
Since thy loved presence was withdrawn, 

And I to grief resigned ; 
Laid on a couch of lingering pain, 
Where stern Disease's torturing chain 

Has every hmb confined 

Oh bathe my burning temples now. 
And cool the scorching of my brow. 

And light the rayless eye ; 
My strength revive with thine own might. 
And with thy footsteps firm and Ught 



Oh bear me to thy radiant height, 

Where, sofl; reposing, lie 
Mild peace, and happiness, and joy, 
And Nature's sweets that never cloy, 
Unmixed with any dire alloj — ■ 

Leave me not thus to die ! 



AUTUMN. 

Now Autumn tints the scene 
With sallow hues serene ; 

And o'er the sky 

Fast hurrying, fly 
Dark, sombre clouds, that pour 
From far the roaring din ; 
The rattling rain and hail. 
With the deep-sounding wail 
Of wild and warring melodies, begin. 

The wind flies fitfal through the forest-trees 
With hollow bowlings and in wrathful mood ; 
As when some maniac fierce, disdaining ease, 
Tears with convulsive power, 
In horrid Fury's hour, 
His locks dishevelled ; and a chilling moan 
Breathes from his tortured breast, with dread and 
dismal tone. 

Thus the impetuous blast 
Doth from the woodlands tear 
The leaves, when Summer's reign is past, 
And sings aloud the requiem of Despair; 
Pours ceaseless the reverberated sigh. 
While past the honors of the forest fly. 
Kiss the low ground, and flutter, shrink, and die. 



ON A STORM. 

The harsh, terrific howhng Storm, 
With its wild, dreadful, dire alarm. 

Turns pale the cheek of Mirth ; 
And low it bows the lofty trees. 
And their tall branches bend with ease 

To kiss their parent Earth. 

The rain and hail in torrents pour ; 
The furious winds impetuous roar — 

In hollow murmurs clash. 
The shore adjacent joins the sound, 
And angry surges deep resound, 

And foaming billows dash. 

Yet ocean doth no fear impart, 

But soothes my anguish-swollen heart, 

And calms my feverish brain ; 
It seems a sympathizing fiiend. 
That doth with mine its troubles blend, 

To mitigate my pain. 

In all the varying shades of wo. 
The night relief did ne'er bestow, 

Nor have I respite seen : 
Then welcome. Storm, loud, wild, and rude ; 
To me thou art more kind and good 

Than aught that is serene. 



FRANCESCA CANFIELD. 



Feancesca Anna Pascalis, a daughter of 
Dr. Felix Pascalis, an Italian physician and 
scholar, who had married a native of Phila- 
delphia, and resided several years in that city, 
"was born in August, 1803. While she was 
a child her parents removed to New York, 
where Dr. Pascalis was conspicuous not only 
for his professional abilities, but for his wri- 
tings upon various curious and abstruse sub- 
jects in philosophy, and was intimate with 
many eminent persons, among whom was 
Dr. Samuel L. Mitchill, who was so pleased 
with Francesca, that in 1815, when she was 
in the twelfth year of her age, he addressed 
to her the following playful and characteris- 
tic Valentine : 

Descending snows the earth o'erspread. 
Keen blows the northern blast ; 

Condensing clouds scowl over head, 
The tempest gathers fast. 

But soon the icy mass shall melt. 

The winter end his reign, 
The sun's reviving warmth be felt. 

And nature smile again. 

The plants from torpid sleep shall wake, 
And, nursed by vernal showers. 

Their yearly exhibition make 
Of foliage and of flowers. 

So you an opening bud appear, ^ 

Whose bloom and verdure shoot. 

To load Francesca's growing year 
With intellectual fruit. 

The feathered tribes shall flit along, 

And thicken on the trees, 
Till air shall undulate with song, 

TiU music stir the breeze. 

Thus, like a charming bird, your lay 

The listening ear shall greet. 
And render social circles gay. 

Or make retirement sweet. 

Then warblers chirp, and roses ope, 

To entertain my fair, 
Till nobler themes engage her hope. 

And occupy her care. 

In school Miss Pascalis was particularly 
distinguished for the facility with which she 
acquired languages. At an early period she 
translated with ease and elegance from the 
French, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese, 
and her instinctive appreciation of the har- 



monies of her native tongue was so delicate 
that her English compositions, in both prose 
and verse, were singularly musical as well 
as expressive and correct. The version of a 
French song, " Quand reverrai-je en un jour," 
etc. is among the memorials of her fourteenth 
year, and though much less compact than the 
original, it is interesting as an illustration of 
her own fine and precocious powers. 

While yet at school Miss Pascalis trans- 
lated for a friend a volume from Lavater, and 
soon afterward she made a beautiful English 
version of the Roman Nights from Le Notti 
Romane al Sepolcro Dei Scipioni of Ales- 
sandro Verri. She also translated The Soli- 
tary and The Vine Dresser from the French, 
and wrote some original poems in Italian 
which were much praised by judicious critics. 
She was a frequent contributor, under vari- 
ous signatures, to the literary joitrnals ; and 
among her pieces for this period that are 
preserved in Mr. Knapp's biography, is an 
address to her friend Mitchill, which pur- 
ported to be from Le Brun. 

A " marriage of convenience" was arranged 
for Miss Pascalis with Mr. Canfield, a broker, 
who after a few months became a bankrupt, 
and could never retrieve his fortunes. She 
bore her disappointments without complain- 
ing, and when her husband establi shed a finan- 
cial and commercial gazette, she labored in- 
dustriously to make it attractive by literature; 
but there was a poor opporttmity among ta- 
bles of currency and trade for the display of 
her graceful abilities, and her writings prob- 
ably attracted little attention. She was a 
good pianist, and she painted with such skill 
that some of her copies of old masters de- 
ceived clever artists. Her accomplishments 
however failed to invest with happiness a 
life of which the ambitious flowers had been 
so early blighted, and yielding to consump- 
tion, which can scarcely enter the home of 
a cheerful spirit, she died on the twenty- 
eighth of May, 1823, before completing the 
twentieth year of her age. 

Dr. Pascalis, whose chief hopes were cen- 
tred in his daughter, abandoned his pursuilsi 

135 



136 



FRANCESCA OANFIELD. 



and after lingering through ten disconsolate 
years, died in the summer of 1833 ; and the 
death of her husband, in the following au- 



tumn, prevented the publication of an edition 
of her works, which he had prepared for that 
purpose. 



TO DR. MITCHILL. 

WRITTEN IN HER SEVENTEENTH TEAR. 

MiTCHiLL, although the envious frown, 

Their idle wrath disdain ! 
Upon thy bright and pure renown, 

They can not cast a stain. 
Ida, the heaven-crowned, feels the storm 
Rave fiercely round her towering form. 

Her brow it can not gain. 
Calm, sunny, in majestic pride. 
It marks the powerless blast subside. 

And didst thou ever hope to stand 

So glorious and so high. 
Receive all honor and command, 

Nor meet a jealous eye ] 
No, thou must expiate thy fame. 
Thy noble, thy exalted name ; 

Yet pass thou proudly by ! 
The torrent may with vagrant force 
Disturb, but can not change thy course. 

Or, shouldst thou dread the threats to brave 

Of malice, wilful, dire, 
Break thou the sceptre genius gave. 

And quench thy spirit's fire ; 
Down from thy heights of soul descend, 
Thy flaming pinions earthward bend. 

Fulfil thy foe's desire ; 
Thy immortality contemn, 
And walk in common ways with them. 

The lighter tasks of wit and mind 

Let fickle Taste adore ; 
But Genius' flight is unconfined 

O'er prostrate time to soar. 
How glows he, when Ambition tears 
The veil from gone and coming years ; 

While ages past before, 
To him their future being trust. 
Though empires crumble into dust. 

Without this "magic, which the crowd 

Nor comprehend, nor feel, 
Could Genius' son have ever vowed 

His ductile heart to steel, 
'Gainst all that leads the human breast, 
To turn to Indolence and rest ; 

From Science' haunts to steal. 
To beauty, wealth, and ease, and cheer — 
All that deUght the senses here 1 

And thus he earns a meed of praise 

From nations yet unborn ; 
Still he, whom present pomp repays, 

His arduous toil may scorn ; 
But wiser, sure, than hoard the rose. 
Which low for each wayfarer blows, 

And lives a summer morn, 
To climb the rocky mountain way, 
And gather the unfading bay. 



Yet wo for him whose mental worth 
Fame's thousand tongues resound ! 
While living, every worm of earth 

Seems pri^leged to wound. 
His victory not the less secure. 
Let him the strife with nerve endure. 

In death his triumph found ; 
Then worlds shall with each other vie. 
To spread the name that can not die. 



EDITH. 

Bx those blue eyes that shme 
Dovelike and innocent. 
Yet with a lustre to their soilness lent 

By the chaste fire of guileless purity. 

And by the rounded temple's symmetry ; 

And by the auburn locks, disposed apart, 
(Like Virgin Mary's pictured o'er the shrine,) 

In simple negligence of art ; 

By the young smile on lips whose accents fall 

With dulcet music, bland to all. 

Like downward floating blossoms from the trees 

Detached in silver showers by playful breeze ; 

And by thy cheek, ever so purely pale. 

Save when thy heart with liveher kindness glows ; 
By its then tender bloom, whose delicate hue. 

Is like the morning's tincture of the rose, 
The snowy veils of the gossamer mist seen through ; 
And by the flowing outline's grace. 

Around thy features like a halo thrown. 
Reminding of that noble race [known, 

Beneath a lovelier heaven in kindlier climates 

Whose beauty, both the moral and the mortal, 

Stood at perfection's portal 
And still doth hold a rank surpassing all compare ; 

By the divinely meek and placid air 

Which witnesseth so well that all the charms 
It hghts and warms. 

Though but the finer fashion of the clay 

Deserve to be adored, since they 

Are emanations from a soul allowed 
Thus radiantly to glorify its dwelhng 

That goodness like a visible thing avowed. 

May awe and win, and temper and prevail : 
And by all these combined ! 

I call upon thy form ideal. 
So deeply in my memory shrined, 

To rise before my vision, like the real, 
Whenever passion's tides are swelling, 
Or vanity misleads, or discontent 
Rages with wishes, vain and impotent. 
Then, while the tumults of my heart increase, 

I call upon thy image — then to rise 
In sweet and solemn beauty, like the moon, 
Resplendent in the firmament of June, 

Through the still hours of night to lonely eyes. 
I gaze and muse thereon, and tempests cease — 
And round me falls an atmosphere of peace. 



ELIZABETH BOGART. 



Miss Elizabeth Bogart, descended from 
a Huguenot family distinguished in the mer- 
cantile andsocial history of New York, and 
a daughter of the late Rev. David S. Bogart, 
one of the most accomplished divines of the 
last generation, was born in the city of New 
York. Her father was shortly afterward set- 
tled as a minister of the Presbyterian Church 
at Southampton, on Long Island. In 1813 
bis connexion with that congregation was 
dissolved, and he removed to North Hemp- 
stead, where he was installed in the Re- 
formed Dutch Church, in which he had been 
educated. In 1826, he removed again to 
New York, where his family have since re- 
sided. 

About the year 1825 Miss Bogart began to 
write, under the signature of "Estelle," for 



the New York Mirror, then recently estab- 
lished ; and her contributions, in prose and 
verse, to this and other periodicals, would 
fill several volumes. Among them are two 
prize stories — The Effect of a Single Folly, 
and The Forged Note — which evince a con- 
structive ability that would not, perhaps, be 
inferred from her other compositions, many 
of which are of a very desultory character. 
Miss Bogart has ease, force, and a degree 
of fervor, which might have placed her ia 
the front rank of our female authors ; but al- 
most everything she has given to the public 
has an impromptu air, which shows that lit- 
erature has scarcely been cultivated by her 
as an art, while it has constantly been re- 
sorted to for the utterance of feelings which 
could find no other suitable expression. 



AN AUTUMN VIEW, FROM MY WINDOW. 

I GAZE with raptured eyes 
Upon the lovely landscape, as it lies 

Outstretched before my window : even now 
The mist is sailing from the mountain's brow, 
For it is early morning, and the sun 
His course has just begun. 

How beautiful the scene 
Of hill on hill arismg, while between 
The river like a silvery streak appears. 
And rugged rocks, the monuments of years, 
Resemble the old castles on the Khine, 
Which look down on the vine. 

No clustering grapes, 'tis true, 
Hang from these mountain-sides to meet the view; 
But fairer than the vineyards is the sight 
Of our luxuriant forests, which, despite 
The change of nations, hold their ancient place, 
Lost to the Indian race. 
Untiring I survey 
The prospect from my window, day by day : 
Something forgotten, though just seen before. 
Something of novelty or beauty more 
Than yet discovered, ever charms my eyes, 
And wakes a fresh surprise. 

And thus, when o'er my heart 
A weary thought is stealing, while apart 
From friends and the gay world I sit alone. 
With life's dark veil upon the future thrown, 
I look from out my window, and there find 
A solace for the mind. 



The Indian Summer's breath 
Sighs gently o'er the fallen leaflet's death. 
And bids the frost-king linger on his way 
Till Autumn's tints have brightened o'er decay. 
What other clime can such rich painting show 1 
Tell us, if any know ! 



RETROSPECTION. 

AN EXTRACT. 

I'm weary with thinking I with visions that pass 
So thickly and gloomily over my brain, 

In which are reflected through Memory's glass 
The lost scenes of youth which return not again. 

Oh ! now I look back and remember the hours 
When I wished that a time of sweet leisure might 
come, 
When, freed from employments and studies, the 
powers 
Of thought were all loosened, in fancy to roam. 

That time has arrived. Care nor business conspire 
To restrain the mind's freedom, nor press on the 
heart; 

No stern prohibition hangs over the lyre. 
To bid all its bright inspirations depart. 

But how has it come 1 — Oh ! by breaking the ties 

Of affection and kindred, and snatchmg away 
The beloved from around me, whose praise was the 
prize 
Which lured me in Poesy's pathway to stray. 

137 



138 



ELIZABETH BOGART. 



FORGETFULNESS. 

We parted ! — Friendship's dream had cast 

Deep interest o'er the brief farewell, 
And left upon the shadowy past 

Full many a thought on which to dwell : 
Such tliouglits as come in early youth, 

And live in fellowship with hope ; 
Robed in the briUiant hues of truth. 

Unfitted with the world to cope. 

We parted. He went o'er the sea, 

And deeper solitude was mine ; 
Yet there remained in memory 

For feeling still a sacred shrine : 
And Thought and Hope were offered up 

Till their ethereal essence fled, 
And Disappointment from the cup 

lis dark libations poured instead. 

We parted. 'T was an idle dream 

That thus we e'er should meet again ; 
For who that knew man's heart, would deem 

That it could long unchanged remain 1 — 
He sought a foreign clime, and learned 

Another language, which expressed 
To strangers the rich thoughts that burned 

With unquenched power withm his breast. 

And soon he better loved to speak 

In those new accents than his own ; 
His native tongue seemed cold and weak 

To breathe the wakened passions' tone. 
He wandered far, and lingered long, 

And drank so deep of Lethe's sti'eam, 
That each new feeling grew more strong, 

And all the past was like a dream. 

We met — a few glad words were spoken, 

A few kind glances were exchanged; 
But friendship's first romance was broken — 

His had been from me estranged. 
I felt it all — we met no more — 

My heart was true, but it was proud ; 
Life's early confidence was o'er. 

And hope had set beneath a cloud. 

We met no more — for neither sought 

To reunite the severed chain 
Of social intercourse; for naught 

Could join its parted links again. 
Too much of the wide world had been 

Between ua for too long a time. 
And he had looked on many a scene, 

The beautiful and the sublime. 

And he had themes on which to dwell, 

And memories that were not mine, 
Which formed a separating spell. 

And drew a mystic boundary line. 
His thoughts were wanderers — and the things 

Which brought back friendship's joys to me. 
To him were but the spirit's wings 

Which bore him o'er the distant sea. 



For he had seen the evening star 

Glancing its rays o'er ocean's waves, 
And marked the moonbeams irom afar. 

Lighting the Grecian heroes' graves ; 
And he had gazed on trees and flowers 

Beneath Italia's sunny skies. 
And listened, in fair ladies' bowers. 

To Genius' words and Beauty's sighs. 

His steps had echoed through the halls 

Of grandeur, long left desolate ; 
And he had climbed the crumbling walls, 

Or oped perforce the hingeless gate ; 
And mused o'er many an ancient pile. 

In ruin still magnificent. 
Whose histories could the hours beguile 

With dreams, before to Fancy lent. 

Such recollections come to him. 

With moon, and stars, and summer flowers ; 
To me they bring the shadows dim 

Of earlier and of happier hours. 
I would those shadows darker fell — 

For life, with its best powers to bless. 
Has but few memories loved as well 

Or welcome as forgetfulness I 



HE CAME TOO LATE. 

He came, too late ! — Neglect had tried 

Her constancy too long ; 
Her love had yielded to her pride. 

And the deep sense of wrong. 
She scorned the offering of a heart 

Which lingered on its way. 
Till it could no delight impart, 

Nor spread one cheering ray. 

He came too late ! — At once he felt 

That all his power was o'er : 
Indifference in her calm smile dwelt — 

She thought of him no more. 
Anger and grief had passed away. 

Her heart and thoughts were fi-ee ; 
She met him, and her words were gay — 

No spell had Memory. 

He came too late ! — The subtle chords 

Of love were all unbound. 
Not by offence of spoken words, 

But by the slights that wound. 
She knew that life held nothing now 

That could the past repay. 
Yet she disdained his tardy vow, 

And coldly turned away. 

He came too late ! — Her countless dreams 

Of hope had long since flown ; 
No charms dwelt in his chosen themes. 

Nor in his whispered tone. 
And when, with word and smile, he tried 

Affection still to prove. 
She nerved her heart with woman's pride, 

And spumed his fickle love. 



MARY E. BROOKS. 



Miss Mart E. Aiken, a native of New- 
York, was for several years a contributor to 
tlie Mirror and other periodicals, under the 
signature of " Noma," her sister, during the 
same period, writing under the pseudonyme 
of " Hinda." In 1828 she was married to 
Blr. James G. Brooks, a gentleman of fine 
abilities, who was well known as the author 
of many graceful pieces, in prose and verse, 
signed " Florio." In the following year ap- 
peared a volume entitled The Rivals of Este, 
and other Poems, by James G. and Mary E. 
Brooks. The leading composition, from 
which the collection had its name, is by 



Mrs. Brooks. It is a story of passion, and the 
principal characters are of the ducal house 
of Ferrara. Her Hebrew Melodies, and other 
short poems, in the same volume, are written 
with more care, and have much more merit. 
Mr. Brooks was at this time connected 
with one of the New York journals ; but in 
1830 he removed to Winchester, in Virginia, 
where he was for several years editor of a 
political and literary gazette. In 1838 he 
returned to New York, and established him- 
self in Albany, where he remained until his 
death, in February, 1841, from whicli time 
Mrs. Brooks has resided in New York. 



THE CLOSE OF THE YEAE. 

" The everlasting to b£ which hath been 
Hath taught ud naught or little." 

Fbom the deep and stirring tone, 
Ever on the midnight breaking. 

Came a whisper thrill and lone 
O'er my silent vigil waking : 

" Come to me ! the dreamy hour 

Fades before the spoiler's power ! 

Come ! the passing tide is strong. 

As it bears thy life along ; 

Soon another seal for thee 

Stamps the stem Futurity. 

Bow thee — bend thee to the light 

Stealing on thy spirit sight. 

From the bygone's faded bloom. 

From the shadow and the gloom, 

From each strange and changeful scene 

Which amid thy path has been ; 

And oh, let it wake for thee, 

Beacon of the days to be !" 

Soft before my sight was spreading 
Many a sweet and sunny flower ; 
Pleasure bright, her promise shedding, 

Gilded o'er each fairy bower : 
Oh, it was a laughing glee. 
Hanging o'er Futurity ; 
Blisses mid young beauties blooming — 
Hopes, no sullen griefs entombing — 
Loves that vowed to link for ever, 
Cold or blighted, never — never ; 
Not a shadow on the dome 
Fancy reared for days to come — 
Not a dream of sleeping ill 
There her rushing tide to chill ; 
Gayly lay each glittering morrow : 
And I turned me half in sorrow, 



As that phantom beckoned back. 
To retrace Life's fading track. 
Sinking in the broad dim ocean. 

Shadows blending o'er its bier, 
Slow from being's wild commotion. 

Saw I pass another year. 
There was but a misty cloud 
Bending o'er a silent shroud ; 
Hope, fame, rapture — loved and gay — 
Tell, oh tell me, where were they 1 
Idols once in sunlight glancing. 

Ay, that claimed each starting sigh. 
With the green-leafed promise dancing 

Round the heart so merrily — 
Where was now the waking blossom 
Should be wreathing round the bosom 1 
Only lay a mist far spreading, 
Dim and dimmer twilight shedding. 
Like to fever's fitful gleam, 
Like to sleeper's troubled dream ; 
In the cold and perished Past 
Lay the mighty strife at last. 
Oft that dim and visioned treading, 

Where the ii'aii and fair decay, 
Comes upon my bosom, shedding 

Light through many a rismg day. 
Phantoms now in beauty ranging, 
Dreaming ne'er of chill or changing, 
Bright and gay and flashing all, 
How their voiceless shadows fall ! 
Go — the weeper's heart is weary ; 
Go — the widow's wail is dreary : 
Thousand-toned the agony 
On each night-breeze sweeping by : 
Go — and for each little flower 
Wreathed about the blighted bower. 
Bright, when suns and stars have set, 
Will a flow'ret blossom vet. 

1X> 



140 



MARY E. BROOKS. 



A PLEDGE TO THE DYING YEAR. 

Fill to the brim ! one pledge to the past, 

As it sinks on its shadowy bier ; 
Fill to the brim ! 'tis the saddest and last 

We pour to the gi-ave of the year : 
Wake, the light phantoms of beauty that won us 

To linger awhile in those bowers ; 
And flash the bright daybeams of promise upon us, 

That gilded life's earlier hours. 

Here 's to the love — though it flitted away, 

We can never, no, never forget ! 
Through the gathering darkness of many a day, 

One pledge will we pour to it yet. 
Oh, frail as the vision, that witching and tender, 

And bright on the wanderer broke, 
When Irem's own beauty in shadowless splendor, 

Along the wild desert awoke.* 

Fill to the brim ! one pledge to the glow 

Of the heart in its purity warm ! 
Ere sorrow had' sullied the fountain below. 

Or darkness enveloped the form : 
Fill to that life-tide ! oh, warm was its rushing 

Through Adens of arrowy light, 
And yet like the wave in the wilderness gushuig, 

'Twill gladden the wine cup to-night. 

Fill to the past ! from its dim distant sphere 

Wild voices in melody come ; 
The strains of the bygone, deep echoing here. 

We pledge to their shadowy tomb ; 
And like the bright orb, that in sinking flings back 

One gleam o'er the cloud-covered dome. 
May the dreams of the past, on fiiturity track 

The hope of a holier home ! 



"WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD." 

Oh, weep not for the dead ! 
Rather, oh rather give the tear 
To those who darkly linger here. 

When all besides are fled : 
Weep for the spirit withering 
In its cold, cheerless sorrowing ; 
Weep for the ybung and lovely one 
That ruin darkly revels on. 

But never be a tear-drop shed 

For them, the pure enfranchised dead. 

Oh, weep not for the dead ! 
No more for them the blighting chill. 
The thousand shades of earthly ill, 

The thousand thorns we tread ; 
Weep for the life-charm early flown, 
The spirit broken, bleeding, lone ; 
Weep for the death pangs of the heart, 
Ere being from the bosom part ; 

But never be a tear-drop given 

To those that rest in yon blue heaven. 

* Irem, one of the gardens described by Mohammed — 
planted, as the commentators of the Koran say, by a king 
named Shedad, once seen by an Arabian, who wandered 
very fai- into the desei't in search of a lost camel : a gar- 



DRBAM OF LIFE. 

I HEARD the music of the wave. 

As it rippled to the shore. 
And saw the willow branches lave. 

As light winds swept them o'er — 
The music of the golden bow 

That did the torrent span ; 
But I heard a sweeter music flow 

From the youthful heart of man. 

The wave rushed on — the hues of heaven 

Fainter and fainter grew. 
And deeper melodies were given 

As swift the changes flew ; 
Then came a shadow on my sigh ; 

The golden bow was dim — 
And he that laughed beneath its light, 

What was the change to him 1 

I saw him not : only a throng 

Like the swell of troubled ocean. 
Rising, sinking, swept along 

In the tempest's wild commotion : 
Sleeping, dreaming, waking then. 

Chains to link or sever — 
Turning to the dream again. 

Fain to clasp it ever. 

There was a rush upon my brain, 

A darkness on mine eye ; 
And when I turned to gaze again. 

The mingled forms were nigh : 
In shadowy mass a mighty hall 

Rose on the fitful scene ; 
Flowers, music, gems, were flung o'er all, 

Not such as once had been. 

Then in its mist, far, far away, 

A phantom seemed to be ; 
The something of a bygone day — 

But oh, how changed was he ! 
He rose beside the festal board. 

Where sat the meny throng ; 
And as the purple juice he poured, 

Thus woke his wassail song : 

SONG. 

Come ! while with wine the goblets flow, 
For wine they say has power to bless ; 

And flowers, too — not roses, no ! 
Bring poppies, bring forgetfulness ! 

A lethe for departed bliss, 

And each too well remembered scene : 
Earth has no sweeter draught than this. 

Which drowns the thought of what has been. 
Here 's to the heart's cold iciness. 

Which can not smUe, but will not sigh : 
If wine can bring a chill like this. 

Come, fill for me the goblet high. 

Come — and the cold, the false, the dead, 

Shall never cross our revelry ; 
We '11 kiss the wine cup sparkling red. 

And snap the chain of memory. 

den no less celebrated (says Sir W. Jones) by the Asiatic 
poets, than that of the Hesperides by the Greeks. 



M. ST. LEON LOUD. 



Marguerite St. Leon Barstow was born 
in the rural town of Wysox, among the wind- 
ings of the Susquehannah, in Bradford coun- 
ty, Pennsylvania. In 1824 she was married 
to Mr. Loud, of Philadelphia ; and, except 
during a short period passed in the South, 
has since resided in that city. Her poems 
have for the most part appeared in the Uni- 
ted States Gazette and in the Philadelphia 



monthly magazines. Mr. Edgar A. Poe, in 
his Autography, says of Mrs. Loud, that she 
"has imagination of no common order, and, 
unlike many of her sex, is not 

' Content to dwell in decencies forever.' 
While she can, upon occasion, compose the 
ordinary singsong with all the decorous pro- 
prieties which are in fashion, she yet ventures 
very frequently into a more ethereal region." 



A DKEAM OF THE LONELY ISLE. 

There is an isle in the far South sea, 
Sunny and bright as an isle can be ; 
Sweet is the sound of the ocean wave. 
As its sparkling waters the green shores lave ; 
And from the shell that upon the strand 
Lies half buried in golden sand — 
A thrilling tone through the still air rings, 
Like music trembling on fairy strings. 
Flowers like those which the Peris find 
In the bowers of their paradise, and bind 
In the flowing tresses, are blooming there, 
And gay birds glance through the scented air. 
Gems and pearls are strewed on the earth 
Untouched — there are known to know their worth ; 
And that fair island Death comes not nigh : 
Why should he come 1 — there are none to die. 

My heart had grown, like the misanthrope's, 
Cold and dead to all human hopes ; 
Fame and fortune alike had proved 
Baseless dreams, and the friends I loved 
Vanished away, like the flowers that fade 
In the deadly blight of the Upas' shade. 
I longed upon that green isle to be. 
Far away o'er the sounding sea. 
Where no human voice, with its words of pain, 
Could ever fall on my ear again. 
Life seemed a desert vsiaste to me, 
And I sought in slumber from care to flee. 

Away, away, o'er the waters blue. 
Light as a sea-bird the vessel flew. 
Deep ocean-furrows her timbers plough, 
As the waves are parted before her prow ; 
And the foaming billows close o'er her path. 
Hissing and roaring, as if in wrath. 
But swiftly onward, through foam and spray, 
To the lonely island she steers her way : 
The heavens above wore their brightest smile. 
As the bark was moored by that fairy isle ; 
The sails were furled, the voyage was o'er ; 
I should buffet the waves of the world no more ! 
I looked to the ocean — the bark was gone, 



I And I stood on that beautiful isle alone. 
My wish was granted, and I was blest ; 
My spirit revelled in perfect rest — 
A Dead sea calm — even Thought reposed 
Like a weary dove with its pinions closed. 
Beauty was round me : bright roses hung 
Their blushing vpreaths o'er my head, and flung 
Fragance abroad on the gale — to me 
Sweeter than odors of Araby ; 
Wealth was mine, for the yellow gold 
Lay before me in heaps untold. 
Death to that island knew not the way, 
But life was mine for ever and aye, 
Till Love again made rpy heart its throne, 
And I ceased to dwell on the isle alone. 

Long did my footsteps delighted range 
My peaceful home, but there came a change : 
My heart grew sad, and I looked with pain 
On all I had bartered life's ties to gain. 
A chilling weight on my spirits fell, 
As the low, soft wail of the ocean shell — 
Or the bee's faint hum in the flowery wood. 
Was all that broke on my soUtude. 
Oh ! then I felt, in my loneliness. 
That earth had no power the heart to bless, 
Unwarmed by aSection's holy ray ; 
And hope was withered, as day by day 
I watched for the bark, but in vain — in vain ; 
She never sought that green isle again ! 

I stretched my arms o'er the heaving sea, 
And prayed aloud, in my agony. 
That Love's pure spirit might with rae dwell. 
Then rose the waves with a murmuring swell. 
Higher and higher, till naught was seen 
Where slept in beauty that islet gi"een. 
The waters passed o'er me — the spell was broke ; 
From the dream of the lonely isle I woke. 
With a heart redeemed from its selfish stain. 
To mingle in scenes of the world again 
With cheerful spirit — and rather share 
The pains and sorrows which mortals bear. 
Than dwell where no shade on my path is thrown. 
Mid fadeless flowers and bright gems alone. 
141 



142 



M. ST. LEON LOUD. 



THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD. 

Theue is a lonely homestead 

In a green and quiet vale, 
With its tall trees sighing mournfully 

To every passing gale ; 
There are many mansions round it, 

In the sunlight gleaming fair ; 
But moss-grown is that ancient roof, 

Its walls are gray and bare. 
Where once glad voices sounded 

Of children in their mirth, 
No whisper breaks the solitude 

By that deserted hearth. 
The swallow from her dwelling 

In the low eaves hath flown ; 
And all night long, the whip-poor-will 

Sings by the threshold stone. 
No hand above the window 

Ties up the trailing vines ; 
And through the broken casement-panes 

The moon at midnight shines. 
And many a solemn shadow 

Seems starting from the gloom ; 
Like forms of long-departed ones 

Peopling that dim old room. 
No farrow for the harvest 

Is drawn upon the plain. 
And in the pastures green and fair 

No herds or flocks remain. 
Why is that beauteous homestead 

Thus standing bare and lone. 
While all the worshipped household gods 

In dust lie overthrown. 
And where are they whose voices 

Rang out o'er hill and dale ? 
Gone — and their mournful history 

Is but an oft-told tale. 
There smiles no lovelier valley 

Beneath the summer sun. 
Yet they who dwelt together there. 

Departed one by one. 
Some to the quiet churchyard, 

And some beyond the sea ; 
To meet no more, as once they met. 

Beneath that old roof-tree. 
Like forest-birds forsaking 

Their sheltaring native nest, 
The young to Ufe's wild scenes went forth, 

The aged to their rest. 
Fame and ambition lured them 

From that green vale to roam. 
But as their dazzling dreams depart, 

Regretful memories come 
Of the valley and the homestead — 

Of their childhood pure and free — 
Till each world-weary spirit pines 

That spot once more to see. 
Oh ! blest are they who linger 

Mid old familiar things. 
Where every object o'er the heart 

A hallowed influence flings. 
Though won are wealth and honors — 

Though reached fame's lofty dome — 
There are no joys like those which dwell 

Within our childhood's home. 



PRAYER FOR AN ABSENT HUSBAND. 

Fatheb in heaven ! 
Behold, he whom I love is daily treading 

The path of life in heaviness of soul. 
With the thick darkness now around him spreading 

He long hath striven — 
Oh, thou most kind ! break not the golden bowl. 

Father in heaven ! 
Thou who so oft hast healed the broken-hearted, 
And raised the weary spirit bowed with care, 
Let him not say his joy hath all departed, 

Lest he be driven 
Down to the deep abyss of dark despair. 

Father in heaven ! 
Oh, grant to his most cherished hopes a blessing — 

Let peace and rest descend upon his head. 
That his torn heart, thy holy love possessing. 

May not be riven — 
Let guardian angels watch his lonely bed. 

Father in heaven ! 
Oh, may his heart be stayed on thee ! each feeling 

Still lifted up in gratitude and love ; 
And may that faith the joys of heaven revealing 

To him be given. 
Till he shall praise thy name in realms above. 



REST IN THE GRAVE. 

Oh, peaceful grave ! how blest 
Are they who in thy quiet chambers rest, 

After the feverish strife — 
The wild, dark, turbulent career of life ! 



There shall the throbbing brain. 
The heart with its wild hopes and longings vain, 

Find undisturbed repose — 
No more to struggle with its weight of woes. 

No passionate desires 
For some bright goal to which the soul aspires — 
Forever unattained — consumelike quenchless fires. 

Oh ! for a dreamless sleep, 

A slumber calm and deep, 
A long and silent midnight in the tomb. 
Where no dim visions of the past may come ; 

No haunting memories — no tears. 
Nor voices which the startled spirit hears. 
Whispering mysteriously of ill in coming years. 

Peace — peace unbroken dwells, 

Oh grave ! in thy lone cells. 

And yet not lone, for they 

Who 've passed from earth away. 
People thy realms — the beautiful, the young. 
The kindred who around my pathway flung 
All that earth had of brightness — and the tomb 

Is robbed of all its gloom. 

There would I rest, Grave ! 

Till thy unstormy wave 
Hath overswept the whole of life's bleak shore ; 
In thy deep stream of calm forgetfulness 

My soul would sink — no more 
To brave within a frail, unanchored bark. 
Life's tossing billows and its tempests dark. 



EMMA C. EMBURY. 



This graceful and popular authoress — the 
Mitford of our country — to whom we are in 
so large a degree indebted for redeeming the 
"ladies' magazines," so called, from the re- 
proach of frivolity and sickly sentiment, is 
a daughter of Dr. James R. Manley, for many 
years one of the most eminent physicians of 
New York, from whom she inherits all the 
peculiar pride and prejudice that make up 
the genuine Knickerbocker. She was mar- 
ried, it appears from the New York Mirror 
of the following Saturday, on the tenth of 
May, 1828, to Mr. Daniel Embury, now of 
Brooklyn, a gentleman of liberal fortune, who 
is well known for his taste and scholarly ac- 
quirements. 

Mrs. Embury's native interest in literature 
was manifested by an early appreciation of 
the works of genius, and her poetical talents 
were soon recognised and admired. Under 
the signature of " lanthe," she gave to the 
public numerous effusions, which were dis- 
tinguished for vigor of language and genuine 
depth of feeling. A volume of these youthful 
but most promising compositions was select- 
ed and published, mider the title of G-uido and 
other Poems. Since her marriage, she has 
given to the public more prose than verse, 
but the former is characterized by the same 
romantic spirit which is the essential beauty 
of poetry. Many of her tales are founded 
upon a just observation of life, although not 
a few are equally remarkable for attractive 



invention. In point of style, they often pos- 
sess the merit of graceful and pointed dic- 
tion, and the lessons they inculcate are inva- 
riably of a pure moral tendency. Constance 
Latimer, or The Blind Girl, is perhaps better 
known than any other of her single produc- 
tions ; and this, as well as her Pictures of 
Early Life, has passed through a large num- 
ber of editions. Li 1845 she published, in a 
beautiful quarto volume, with pictorial illus- 
trations. Nature's Gems, or American Wild 
Flowers, a work which contains some of 
the finest specimens of her writings, in both 
prose and verse. In 1846 she gave to the 
public a collection of graceful poems, under 
the title of Love's Token Flowers ; and, in 
1848, The Waldorf Family, or Grandfather's 
Legends, a little volume in which she has 
happily adapted the romantic and poetical 
legendary of Brittany to the tastes of our own 
country and the present age ; and a work 
entitled Glimpses of Home Life, in which 
many of the beautiful fictions she had writ- 
ten for the magazines, having a unity and 
completeness of design, are reproduced, to 
run anew the career of popularity through 
which they passed on their first and separate 
publication. The tales and sketches by Mrs. 
Embury are very numerous, probably not less 
than one hundred and fifty ; and several such 
delightful series, evincing throughout the 
same true cultivation and refinement of taste 
and feeling, might be made from them. 



TWO PORTEAITS FROM LIFE. 

I. 
Oh, what a timid watch young Love was keeping 

When thou wert fashioned in such gentle guise ! 

How was thy nature nursed with secret sighs ! 
What bitter tears thy mother's heart were steeping ! 

Within the crystal depths of thy blue eyes 
A world of troubled tenderness lies sleeping, 

And on thy full and glowing lip there lies 
A shadow that portends thee future weeping. 
Tender and self-distrustful — doubting still 

Thyself, but trusting all the world beside. 
Tremblingly sensitive to coming ill. 

Blending with woman's softness manhood's pride. 
How wilt thou all life's future conflicts bear. 
And fearless suifer all that man must do and dare ^ 



PHonD,self-sustained and fearless! dreading naught 
Save falsehood — loving everything but sin — 
How glorious is the light that from within 

Illumes thy boyish face with lofty thought ! 

A child thou art — but thy deep eyes are fraught 
With that mysterious light by genius shed, 

And in thine aspect is a glory caught 
From the high dreams that cluster round thy head: 

I know not what thy future lot may be, 
But, when men gather to a new crusade 

Against earth's falsehood, wrong, and tyranny. 
Thou wilt be there with all thy strength dis- 
played — 

Thy voice clear-ringing mid the conflict's roar. 

And on thy banner, writ in stars, " Excelsior !" 
143 



144 



EMMA C. EMBURY. 



THE DUKE OP REICHSTADT. 

Heik of that name 
Which shook with sudden terror the far earth — 
Child of strange destinies e'en from thy birth, 

When kings and princes round thy cradle came, 
And gave their crowns, as playthings, to thy hand — 
Thine heritage the spoils of many a land ! 

How were the schemes 
Of human foresight baffled in thy fate, 
Thou victim of a parent's lofty state ! 

What glorious visions filled thy father's dreams. 
When first he gazed upon thy infant face. 
And deemed himself the Rodolph of his race ! 

Scarce had thine eyes 
Beheld the light of day, when thou wert bound 
With power's vain symbols, and thy young brow 
crowned 
W^ith Rome's imperial diadem — the prize 
From priestly princes by thy proud sire won. 
To deck the pillow of his cradled son. 

Yet where is now 
The sword that flashed as with a meteor light, 
And led on half the world to stirring fight. 

Bidding whole seas of blood and carnage flow ? 
Alas ! when foiled on his last battle-plain. 
Its shattered fragments forged thy father's chain. 

Far worse thy fate 
Than that which doomed him to the barren rock ; 
Through half the universe was felt the shock, 
When down he toppled fi-om his high estate ; 
And the proud thought of still acknowledged power 
Could cheer him e'en in that disastrous hour. 

But thou, poor boy ! 
Hadst no such dreams to cheat the lagging hours ; 
Tliy chains still galled, though wreathed with fairest 
Thou hadst no images of bygone joy, [flowers; 
No visions of anticipated fame. 
To bear thee through a life of sloth and shame. 

And where was she. 
Whose proudest title was Napoleon's wife 1 
She who first gave, and should have watched thy 
Trebling a mother's tenderness for thee, [Ufe, 
Despoiled hen: of empire 1 On her breast 
Did thy young heart repose in its unrest 1 

No ! round her heart 
Children of humbler, happier lineage twined : 
Thou couldst but bring dark memories to mind 

Of pageants where she bore a heartless part ; 
She who shared not her monarch-husband's doom 
Cared little for her first-born's living tomb. 

Thou art at rest : 
Child of Ambition's martyr ! life had been 
To thee no blessing, but a di'eary scene 

Of doubt, and dread, and suffering at the best ; 
For thou wert one whose path, in these dark times, 
Would lead to sorrows — it may be to crimes ! 

Thou art at rest : 
The idle sword hath worn its sheath away ; 
The spirit has consumed its bonds of clay ; 

And they, who with vain tyranny comprest 
Thy soul's high yearnings, now forget their fear, 
And fling ambition's purple o'er thy bier ! 



SYMPATHY. 

Like the sweet melody which faintly lingers 
Upon the windharp's strings at close of day, 

When gently touched by evening's dewy fingers 
It breathes a low and melancholy lay : 

So the calm voice of sympathy meseemeth ; 

And while its magic spell is round me cast. 
My spirit in its cloistered silence dreameth. 

And vaguely blends the future with the past. 

But vain such dreams while pain my bosom thrilleth, 
And mournful memories around me move ; 

E'en iriendship's alchemy no balm distilleth. 
To soothe th' immedicable wound of love. 

Alas, alas ! passion too soon exhaleth 
The dewy freshness of the heart's young flowers ; 

We water them with tears, but naught availeth — 
They wither on through all life's later hours. 



AUTUMN EVENING. 

" And Isaac went out in the field to meditate at eventide." 

Go forth at morning's birth, 
When the glad sun, exulting in his might. 
Comes from the dusky-curtained tents of night, 

Shedding his gifts of beauty o'er the earth ; 
When sounds of busy life are on the air, 
And man awakes to labor and to care. 
Then hie. thee forth : go out amid thy kind. 
Thy daily tasks to do, thy harvest-sheaves to bind. 

Go forth at noontide hour. 
Beneath the heat and burden of the day 
Pursue the labors of thine onward way, 

Nor murmur if thou miss life's morning flower; 
Where'er the footsteps of mankind are found 
Thou may'st discern some spot of hallowed ground, 
Where duty blossoms even as the rose, [enclose. 
Though sharp and stinging thorns the beauteousbud 

Go forth at eventide. 
When sounds of toil no more the soft air fill, 
When e'en the hum of insect life is still, 

And the bird's song on evening's breeze has died ; 
Go forth, as did the patriarch of old, [told. 

And commune with thy heart's deep thoughts un- 
Fathom thy spirit's hidden depths, and learn 
The mysteries of life, the fires that inly bum. 

Go forth at eventide. 
The eventide of summer, when the trees 
Yield their frail honors to the passing breeze. 

And woodland paths with autumn tints are dyed ; 
When the mild sun his paling lustre shrouds 
In gorgeous draperies of golden clouds. 
Then wander forth, mid beauty and decay. 
To meditate alone — alone to watch and pray. 

Go forth at eventide. 
Commune with thine own bosom, and be still — 
Check the wild impulses of wayward will. 

And learn the nothingness of human pride: 
Morn is the time to act, noon to endure ; 
But, oh, if thou wouldst keep thy spirit pure, 
Turn from the beaten path by worldlings trod. 
Go forth at eventide, in heart to walk with God. 



EMMA C. EMBURY. 



145 



PEACE. 

Oh, seek her not in marble halls of pride, 
Where gushing fountains fling their silver tide, 

Their wealth of freshness toward the summer sky ; 
The echoes of a palace are too loud — 
They but give back the footsteps of the crowd 

That throng about some idol throned on high, 
Whose ermined robe and pomp of rich array 
But serve to hide the false one's feet of clay. 

Nor seek her form in poverty's low vale, [pale. 
Where, touched by want, the bright cheek waxes 

And the heart famts, with sordid cares oppiest. 
Where pining discontent has left its trace 
Deep and abiding in each haggard face. 

Not there, not there Peace builds her halcyon nest : 
Wild revel scares her from wealth's towering dome. 
And misery lirights her from the poor man's home. 

Nor dwells she in the cloister, where the sage 
Ponders the mystery of some time-stained page. 

Delving, with feeble hand, the classic mine ; 
Oh, who can tell the restless hope of fame. 
The bitter yearnings for a deathless name. 

That round the student's heart like serpents twine ! 
Ambition's fever burns withm his breast. 
Can Peace, sweet Peace, abide with such a guest 1 

Search not within the city's crowded mart. 
Where the low-whispered music of the heart 

Is all unheard amid the clang of gold ; 
Oh, never yet did Peace her chaplet twine 
To lay upon base mammon's sordid shrine, [sold ; 

M'here earth's most precious things are bought and 
Thrown on that pile, the pearl of price would he 
Despised, because unfit for merchantry. 

Go ! hie thee to God's altar— kneeling there. 
List to the mingled voice of fervent prayer 

That swells around thee in the sacred fane ; 
Or catch the solemn organ's pealing note. 
When grateful praises on the still air float, 

And the freed soul forgets earth's heavy chain : 
There learn that Peace, sweet Peace, is ever found 
In her eternal home, on holy ground. 

THE BOLIAN HARP. 

Harp of the winds ! how vainly art thou swelling 
Thy diapason on the heedless blast ; 

How idly, too, thy gentler chords are telling 
A tale of sorrow as the breeze sweeps past ; 

Why dost thou waste in loneliness the strain 

Which were not heard by human ears in vain 1 

And the Harp answered,Though the winds are bear- 
My soul of sweetness on their ^'iewless wings, [ing 

Yet one faint tone may reach some soul despairing. 
And rouse its energies to happier things : 

Oh, not in vain my song, if it but gives 

One moment's joy to anything that lives. 

Oh heart of mine ! canst thou not, here discerning 
An emblem of thyself, some solace find ^ [ing. 

Though earth may never quench thy life-longyeam- 
Yet give thyself like music to the wind : 

Thy wandering thought may teach thy love and 
And waken sympathy when thou art dust, [trust. 



UNREST. 

Heart, weary Heart ! what means thy wild unrest ? 

Hast thou not tasted of earth's every pleasure 1 
With all that mortals seek thy lot is blest ; 

Yet dost thou ever chant in raournftil measure — 
" Something beyond !" 
Heart, weary Heart ! canst thou not find repose 

In the sweet calm -of friendship's pure devotion 1 
Amid the peace which sympathy bestows. 

Still dost thou murmur vrith repressed emotion, 
" Something be^'ond !" 
Heart, weary Heart ! too idly hast thou poured 

Thy music and thy pei'fiime on the blast ; 
Now, beggared in affection's treasured hoard. 

Thy cry is still — thy saddest and thy last — 
" Something beyond !" 
Heart, weary Heart ! oh, cease thy wild unrest — 

Earth can not satisfy thy bitter yearning : 
Then onward, upward speed thy lonely quest, 

And hope to find, where Heaven's pure stars are 
burning, " Something beyond !" 



THE OLD MAN'S LAMENT. 

Oh, for one draught of those sweet waters now 
That shed such freshness o'er my early life I 

Oh that I could but bathe my fevered brow 
To wash away the dust of worldly strife, 

And be a simple-hearted child once more. 

As if I ne'er had known this world's pernicious lore ! 

My heart is weary, and my spirit pants 
Beneath the heat and burden of the day ; 

Would that I could regain those shady haunts 
Where once, with Hope, I dreamed the hours 

Giving my thoughts to tales of old romance, [away, 

Andyieldingup my soul toyouth's delicious trance ! 

Vain are such wishes : I no moi;e may tread 
With lingering step and slow the green hill-side ; 

Before me now life's shortening path is spread. 
And I must onward, whatsoe'er betide : 

The pleasant nooks of youth are passed for aye. 

And sober scenes now meet the traveller on his way. 

Alas ! the dust which clogs my weary feet 
Glitters with fragments of each ruined shrine. 

Where once my spirit wors'nipped, when,with sweet 
And passionless devotion, it could twine 

Its strong affections round earth's earthliest things, 

Yet bear away no stam upon its snowy wings. 

What though some flowers have 'scaped the tem- 
pest's wrath 1 
Daily they droop by nature's swift decay : 
What though the setting sun still lights my path \ 

Morn's dewy freshness long has passed away. 
Oh, give me back life's newly-budded flowers — 
Let me once more inhale the breath of morning's 
hours ! 

My youth, my youth ! oh, give me back my youth ! 

Not the unfurrowed brow and blooming cheek. 
But childhood's sunny thoughts, its perfect truth. 

And youth's unworldly feeUngs — these I seek : 
Ah, who could e'er be sinless and yet sage ? [page ! 
Would that I might forget Tijue's dark and blotted 



U6. 



EMMA C. EMBURY. 



THE AMERICAN RIVER. 

A REMEMBRANCE. 

It rusheth on with fearful might, 

That river of the west, 
Through forests dense, where seldom light 

Of sunbeam gilds its breast : 
Anon it dashes wildly past 
The widespread prairie lone and vast. 
Without a shadow on its tide, 
Save the long grass that skirts its side ; 
Again its angry currents sweep 
Beneath some tall and rocky steep, 
Which frowns above the darkened stream. 
Till doubly deep its waters seem. 
No rugged cliif may check its way, 
No gentle mead invite its stay — 
Still with resistless, maddened force, 
Following its wild and devious course, 

The river rusheth on. 
It rusheth on — the rocks are stirred. 

And echoing far and wide, 
Through the dim forest aisles, is heard 

The thunder of its tide ; 
No other sound strikes on the ear, 
Save when, beside its waters clear, 
•Crashing o'er branches dry and sear, 
Comes bounding forth the antlered deer ; 
Or when, perchance, the woods give back 
The arrow whizzing on its track. 
Or deadlier rifle's vengeful crack : 
No hum of busy life is near. 
And still uncurbed in its career 

The river rusheth on. 
It rusheth on — no firebark leaves 

Its dark and smoking trail 
O'er the pure wave, which only heaves 

The bateau light and frail ; 
liOng, long ago the rude canoe 
Across its sparkling waters flew ; 
Long, long ago the Indian brave 
In the clear stream his brow might lave : 
But seldom has the white man stood 
Within that trackless solitude. 
Where onward, onward dashing still, 
With all the force of untamed will, 

The river rusheth on. 
It rusheth on — no changes mark 

How many years have sped 
Since to its banks, through forests dark, 

Some chance the hunter led ; 
Though many a season has passed o'er 
The giant trees that gird its shore — 
Though the soil limestone mass, imprest 
By naked footstep on its breast. 
Now hardened into rock appears, 
By work of indurating years. 
Yet 'tis by grander strength alone 
That Nature's age is ever known. 
While crumbling turrets tell the tale 
Of man's vain pomp and projects frail. 
Time, in the wilderness displays 
» Th' ennobling power of length of days. 
And in the forest's pathless bound. 
Type of Eternity, is found — 

The river rushing on. 



THE ENGLISH RIVER. 

A FANTASY. 

It floweth on with pleasant sound — 

A vague and dreamlike measure. 
And singeth to the flowers around 

A song of quiet pleasure ; 
No rugged cliff obstructs the way 
Where the glad waters leap and play. 
Or, if a tiny rock look down 
In the cahn sfream with mimic frown. 
The waves a sweeter music make, 
As at its base they flash and break : 
It speedeth on, like joy's bright hours, 
Traced but by verdure and by flowers ; 
And whether sunbeams on it rest. 
Or storm-clouds hover o'er its breast, 
Still in that green and shady glen. 
Beside the busy haunts of men. 

The river singeth on. 
It floweth on, past tree and flower, 

Until the stream is laving 
The ruins of some ancient tower. 

With ivy banners waving : 
Methinks the river's pleasant chime 
Now tells a tale of olden time. 
When mail-clad knights were often seen 
Upon its banks of living green. 
And gentle dames of lineage high 
Lingered to hear Love's thrilUng sigh ; 
Haply some squire, whose humble name 
Was yet unheralded by fame, 
Here wove ambition's earliest dreams : 
While then, as now, 'neath sunset gleams. 
The river singeth on. 
It floweth on — that gentle stream — 

And seems to tell the story 
Of old-world heroes, and their dream 

Of fame and martial glory ; 
The war-cry on its banks has pealed. 
Blent with the clang of lance and shield; 
Waked to new life by war's alarms. 
Bold knights, and squires, and men-at-arms, 
Have sallied forth in proud array. 
With hearts impatient for the fray : 
Though nature's voice is little heard. 
When pulses are thus madly stirred, 
Yet, while in brightness it gives back 
The glittering sheen that marks their track, 

The river singeth on. 
Yet, as above the sunniest fate 

Hangs the dark cloud of sorrow. 
So sadder scenes the fancy wait, 

Since dreams from truth we borrow : 
A well-worn path, now grass-o'ergrown 
And hid by many a fallen stone. 
To yonder roofless chapel led 
Where sleep the castle's honored dead; 
Full often that pure stream has glassed 
The funeral train, as slow it passed ; 
Hark ! as the barefoot monks repeat 
The " Requiescat," wild and sweet. 

The river singeth on. 
The vision fades, the phantoms flee. 

And naught of all remaineth ; 
The river runneth fast and free, 



EMMA C. EMBURY. 



147 



The wind through ruins plaineth : 
The feudal lord and belted knight, 
And spurless squire and lady bright, 
Long since have shared the common lot — 
All, save their haughty name, forgot. 
The ivy wreathes the ruined shrine, 
Flaunting beneath the glad sunshine ; 
The fallen fortress, ruined wall. 
And crumbling battlement, are all 
That still are left to tell the tale 
Of those who ruled that fairy vale : 
But Nature still upholds her sway. 
And flowers and music mark the way 

The river singeth on. 



BALtAD. 

The maiden sat at her busy wheel, 

Her heart was light and free, 
And ever in cheerful song broke forth 

Her bosom's harmless glee : 
Her song was in mockery of Love, 

And oft I heard her say, 
" The gathered rose and the stolen heart 

Can charm but for a day." 

I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek, 

And her lip so full and bright. 
And I sighed to think that the traitor Love 

Should conquer a heart so light : 
But she thought not of future days of wo, 

While she carolled in tones so gay — 
" The gathered rose and the stolen heart 

Can charm but for a day." 

A year passed on, and again I stood 

By the humble cottage door ; 
The maid sat at her busy wheel. 

But her look was blithe no more ; 
The big tear stood in her downcast eye. 

And with sighs I heard her say, 
" The gathered rose and the stolen heart 

Can charm but for a day." 

Oh, well I knew what had dimmed her eye, 

And made her cheek so pale : 
The maid had forgotten her early song. 

While she hstencd to Love's soft tale ; 
She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup, 

It had wasted her life away — 
And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose, 

Had charmed but for a day. 



CHEERFULNESS. 

A GENTLE heritage is mine, 

A life of quiet pleasure : 
My heaviest cares are but to twine 
Fresh votive garlands for the shrine 

Where 'bides my bosom's treasure ; 
I am not merry, nor yet sad, 
My thoughts are more serene than glad. 

I have outlived youth's feverish mirth, 

And all its causeless soitow : 
My joys are now of nobler birth, 



My sorrows too have holier birth 

And heavenly solace borrow ; 
So, from my green and shady nook. 
Back on my by-past life I look. 

The past has memories sad and sweet, 

Memories still fondly cherished. 
Of love that blossomed at my feet. 
Whose odors still my senses greet. 

E'en though the flowers have perished : 
Visions of pleasures passed away 
That charmed me in life's earlier day. 

The future, Isis-Iike, sits veiled. 

And none her mystery learneth ; 
Yet why should the bright cheek be paled. 
For sorrows that may be bewailed 
When time our hopes inureth 1 
Come when it will, grief comes too soon — 
Why dread the night at highest noon 1 

I would not pierce the mist that hides 
Life's coming joy or sorrow ; 

If sweet content with me abides 

While onward still the present glides, 
I think not of the morrow ; 

It may bring griefs — enough for me 

The quiet joy I feel and see. 



THE WIDOW'S WOOER. 

He woos me with those honeyed words 

That women love to hear. 
Those gentle flatteries that fall 

So sweet on every ear : 
He tells me that my face is fair, 

Too fair for grief to shade ; 
My cheek, he says, was never meant 

In sorrow's gloom to fade. 

He stands beside me when I sing 

The songs of other days. 
And whispers, in love's thrilling tones, 

The words of heartfelt praise ; 
And often in my eyes he looks, 

Some answering love to see ; 
In vain — he there can only read 

The faith of memory. 

He little knows what thoughts awake 

With every gentle word ; 
How, by his looks and tones, the founts 

Of tenderness are stirred : 
The visions of my youth return, 

Joys far too bright to last. 
And while he speaks of future bliss, 

I think but of the past. 

Like lamps in eastern sepulchres. 

Amid my heart's deep gloom. 
Affection sheds its holiest Ught 

Upon my husband's tomb : 
And as those lamps, if brought once more 

To upper air grow dim. 
So my soul's love is cold and dead. 

Unless it glow for him. 



148 



EMMA C. EMBURY. 



MADAME DE STAEL. 

Thihe was no beauty on thy brow, 

No softness in thine eye ; 
Thy cheek wore not the rose's glow, 

Thy lip the ruby's dye ; 
The charms that make a woman's pride 

Had never been thine own — 
For Heaven to thee those gifts denied 

In which earth's bright ones shone. 

But brighter, hoUer spells were thine. 

For mental wealth was given, 
Till thou wert as a sacred shrine 

Where men might worsliip Heaven. 
Yes, woman as thou wert, thy word 

Could make the tyrant start. 
And thy tongue's witchery has stirred 

Ambition's iron heart. 

The charm of eloquence — the skill 

To wake each secret string. 
And from the bosom's chords, at will, 

Life's mournful music bring ; 
The o'ermastering strength of mind,' which sways 

The haughty and the free, 
Whose might earth's mightiest one obeys — 

These — these were given to thee. 

Thou hadst a prophet's eye to pierce 

The depths of man's dark soul. 
For thou couldst tell of passions fierce 

O'er which its wild waves roll ; 
And all too deeply hadst thou learned 

The lore of woman's heart — 
The thoughts in thine own breast that burned 

Taught thee that mournful part. 

Thine never was a woman's dower 

Of tenderness and love. 
Thou, who couldst chain the eagle's power, 

Could never tame the dove ; 
Oh, Love is not for such as thee : 

The gentle and the mild. 
The beautiful thus blest may be. 

But never Fame's proud child 

When mid the halls of state, alone. 

In queenly pride of place. 
The majesty of mind thy throne. 

Thy sceptre mental grace — 
Then was thy glory felt, and thou 

Didst triumph in that hour 
When men could turn from beauty's brow 

In tribute to thy power. 

And yet a woman's heart was thine — 

No dream of fame could fill 
The bosom which must vainly pine 

For sweet affection still ; 
And oh, what pangs thy spirit wrung, 

E'en in thy hour of pride, 
When all could Ust Love's wooing tongue 

Save thee, bright Glory's bride. 

Corinna ! thine own hand has traced 

Thy melancholy fate. 
Though by earth's noblest triumphs graced. 

Bliss waits not on the great : 



Only in lowly places sleep 

Life's flowers of sweet perfume. 

And they who climb Fame's mountain-steep 
Must mourn their own high doom. 



HEART aUESTIONINGS. 

When Life's false oracles, no more replying 

To bafiled hope, shall mock my weary quest. 
When in the grave's cold shadow calmly lying. 
This heart at last has found its earthly rest. 
How will ye think of me 1 
Oh, gentle friends, how will ye lliink of me 1 
Perhaps the wayside flowers around ye springing, 
Wasting,unmarked,their fragrance and their bloom. 
Or some fresh fountain, through the forest singing. 
Unheard, unheeded, may recall my doom : 
Will ye thus think of me t 
May not the daybeam glancing o'er the ocean. 

Picture my restless heart, which, like yon wave. 
Reflected doubly, in its wild commotion. 
Each ray of light that pleasure's sunshine gave t 
Will ye thus think of me t 
Will ye bring back, by Memory's art, the gladness 
That sent my fancies forth, like summer birds 1 
Or will ye hst that undertone of sadness, 
Whose music seldom shaped itself in words t 
Will ye thus think of me t 
Remember not how dreams, around me thronging, 

Enticed me ever from life's lowly way. 
But oh ! still hearken to the deep soul longing. 
Whose mournful tones pervade the poet's lay : 
Will ye thus think of me 1 
And then, forgetting every wayward feelmg. 

Bethink ye only that I loved ye well, 
Till o'er your souls that " late remorse" is stealing. 
Whose voiceless anguish only tears can tell. 
Will ye thus think of me 1 
Oh, gentle friends ! will ye thus think of me f 



NEVER FORGET. 

Neteb forget the hour of our first meeting. 
When, mid the sounds of revelry and song, 
Only thy soul could know that mine was greeting 
Its idol, wished for, waited for, so long. 

Never forget. 
Never forget the joy of that revealment, 

Centring an age of bliss in one sweet hour. 
When Love broke forth from friendship's frail con- 
cealment. 
And stood confest to us in godlike power : 

Never forget. 
Never forget my heart's intense devotion. 

Its wealth of freshness at thy feet flung free — 
Its golden hopes, whelmed in that boundless ocean. 
Which merged all wishes, all desires, save thee : 
Never forget. 
Never forget the moment when we parted — 

When from life's summer-cloud theboltwashurled 
That drove us, scathed in soul and broken hearted. 
Alone to wander through this desert world. 
Never forget. 



ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER. 



Eliz-abeth Margaret Chajstdlek was born 
near Wilmington, in Delaware, on the twen- 
ty-fourth of December, 1S07. Her father, an 
exemplary member of the society of Friends, 
after leaving college had become a physician, 
but at this period he was a farmer, in easy 
circumstances, and he continued his agricul- 
tural pursuits until the death of his wife, 
when he removed to Philadelphia and re- 
sumed the practice of his profession. He 
died in 1816, leaving two sons and a daugh- 
ter to the care of their maternal grandmo- 
ther, in Burlington, New Jersey. Elizabeth, 
the youngest of his children, was placed at 
one of the schools of the society, in Philadel- 
phia, where she remained until about thir- 
teen years of age. She was remarkable, when 
very young, for a love of books, and for a 
habit of writing verses, and in her seven- 
teenth year she began to send pieces to the 
journals. For a poem entitled The Slave- 
Ship, written at eighteen, she received a 
prize offered by the publishers of The Cas- 
ket, a monthly magazine, and this led to her 
acquaintancewithMr. Benjamin Lundy, then 



THE DEVOTED. 

Sterx faces were around her bent, 

And eyes of vengeful ire. 
And fearful were the words they spake, 

Of torture, stake, and fire : 
Yet calmly in the midst she stood, 

With eye undimmed and clear, 
And though her lip and cheek were white, 

She wore no signs of fear. 

" Where is thy traitor spouse 1" they said ; — 

A half-formed smile of scorn. 
That curled upon her haughty lip, 

Was back for answer borne ; — 
"Where is thy traitor spouse V* again. 

In fiercer tones, they said, 
And sternly pointed to the rack. 

All rusted o'er with red ! 

Her heart and pulse beat firm and firee — 

But in a crimson flood. 
O'er pallid lip, and cheek, and hrow, 

Rushed up the burning blood ; 
She spake, but proudly rose her tones. 

As when in hall or bower. 
The haughtiest chief that round her stood 

Had meekly owned their power. 



editor of The Genius of Universal Emanci- 
pation, to which paper she became from that 
time a frequent contributor. She continued 
in Philadelphia tmtil the summer of 1830, 
when, her health having failed, she accom- 
panied her brother to a rural town in Lena- 
wee county, Michigan, where, at a place 
which she named Hazlebank, she remained, 
in intimate correspondence with a few friends, 
and in the occasional indulgence of her taste 
for literary composition, tmtil her death, on 
the second of November, 1834. 

The Poetical Works of Miss Chandler, 
with a Memoir of her Life and Character, 
and a collection of her Essays, Philanthropic 
and Moral, principally relating to the Aboli- 
tion of Slavery, were published in Philadel- 
phia in 1836. These volumes are altogether 
creditable to her principles and her abilities. 
Her style and feelings were influenced by her 
religious and social relations, and her wri- 
tings exhibit but little scope or variety ; but 
the pieces that are here quoted, show how 
well she might have succeeded, with a wider 
experience and inspiration. 



" My noble lord is placed within 

A safe and sure retreat" — 
" Now tell us where, thou lady bright, 

As thou wouldst mercy meet. 
Nor deem thy life can purchase his ; 

He can not 'scape our wrath. 
For many a warrior's watchful eye 

Is placed o'er every path. 

"But thou mayst win his broad estates, 

To grace thine infant heir. 
And life and honor to thyself, 

So thou his haunts declare." 
She laid her hand upon her heart ; 

Her eye flashed proud and clear. 
And firmer grew her haughty tread — 

" My lord is hidden here .' 

" And if ye seek to view his form. 

Ye first must tear away. 
From round his secret dwelling-place, 

These walls of living clay !" 
They quailed beneath her haughty glance, 

They silent turned aside. 
And left her all unharmed amidst 

Her loveliness and pride ! 
149 



150 



ELIZABETH M. CHANDLEK. 



THE BATTLE FIELD. 



The last fading sunbeam has sunk in the ocean, 
And darkness has shrouded the forest and hill ; 
The scenes that late rang with the battle's commotion 
Now sleep 'neath the moonbeams serenely and still ; 
Yet light misty vapors above them still hover, 
And dimly the pale beaming crescent discover, 
Though all the stem clangor of conflict is over, 
And hushed the wild trump-note that echoed so 
shrill. 

Around me the steed and the rider are lying, 

To wake at the bugle's loud summons no more — 
And here is the banner that o'er them was flying. 
Torn, trampled, and sullied, with earth and with 
gore. 
With morn — where the conflict the wildest was roar- 
ing, 
Where sabres were clashing, and death-shot were 

pouring. 
That banner was proudest and loftiest soaring — 
Now — standard and bearer alike are no more ! 

All hushed ! not a breatliing of life from the numbers 

That, scattered around me, so heavily sleep — 
Hath the cup of red wine lent its fiimes to their 
slumbers, 
And stained their bright garments with crimson so 
deep'! 
Ah no ! these are not like gay revellers sleeping. 
The nightwinds, unfelt, o'er their bosoms are sweep- 
ing, 
Ignobly their plumes o'er the damp ground are creep- 
ing, 
And dews, all uncared for, their bright falchions 
steep. 

Bright are they t at morning they were — ay, at 
morning 
Yon forms were proud warriors, with hearts beat- 
ing high ; 
The smiles of stern valor their lips were adorning, 
And triumph flashed out from the glance of their 
eye! 
But now : sadly altered the evening hath found them, 
They care not for conquest, disgrace can not wound 

them. 
Distinct but in name, from the earth spread around 
them, ' 
Beside their red broadswords unconscious they lie. 

How still is the scene ! save when dismally whooping, 
The nightbird afar hails the gathering gloom, [ing 

Or a heavy sound tells that their comrades are scoop- 
A couch, where the sleepers may rest in the tomb. 

Alas ! ere yon planet again shall be lighted, 

What hearts shall be broken, what hopes will be 
blighted. 

How many, midst sorrow's dark storm-clouds be- 
nighted. 

Shall envy, e'en while they lament, for thy doom. 

Oh war ! when thou 'rt clothed in the garments of 
glory. 

When Freedom has lighted thy torch at her shrine, 
And proudly thy deeds are emblazoned in story. 

We think not, we feel not, what horrors are thine. 



B ut oh,when the victors and vanquish'd have parted. 

When lonely we stand on the war ground deserted. 

And Ihinkof the dead, and of those broken hearted. 

Thy blood-sprinkled laurel wreath ceases to shine. 



A REVOLUTIONARY SOLDIER'S PRAYER. 

I CARE not for the hurried march • 

Through August's burning noon, 
Nor for the long cold ward at night, 

Beneath the devi^ moon ; 
I've calmly felt the winter's storms 

O'er my unsheltered head. 
And trod the snow with naked foot, 

Till every track was red ! 

My soldier's fare is poor and scant — 

'Tis what my comrades share, 
Yon heaven my only canopy — 

But that I well can bear ; 
A dull and feverish weight of pain 

Is pressing on my brow. 
And I am faint with recent wounds — 

For that I care not now. 

But oh, I long once more to view 

My childliood's dwelling-place, 
To clasp my mother to my heart — 

To see my father's face ! 
To list each well-remembered tone. 

To gaze on every eye 
That met my ear, or thrilled my heart. 

In moments long gone by. 

In vain with long and frequent draught 

Of every wave I sip — 
A quenchless and consuming thirst 

Is ever on my lip ! 
The very air that fans my cheek 

No blessed coolness brings — 
A burning heat or chilling damp 

Is ever on its wings. 

Oh ! let me seek my home once more — 

For but a Uttle while — 
But once above my couch to see 

My mother's gentle smile; 
It haunts me in my waking hours — 

'T is ever in my dreams. 
With all the pleasant paths of home. 

Rocks, woods, and shaded streams. 

There is a fount — I know it well — 

It springs beneath a rock, 
, Oh, how its coolness and its light, 

My feverish fancies mock ! 
I pine to lay me by its side, 

And bathe my lips and brow, 
'T would give new fervor to the heart 

That beats so languid now. 
I may not — I must linger here — 

Perchance it may be just ! 
But well I know this yearning soon 

Will scorch my heart to dust ; 
One breathing of my native air 

Had called me back to life — - 
But I must die — must waste away 

Beneath this inward strife ! 



ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER. 



151 



THE BRANDYWINE. 

Mr foot has climbed tlie rocky summit's height, 
And in mute rapture from its lofty brow 
Mine eye is gazing round me with delight 
On all of beautiful, above, below : 
The fleecy smoke-wreath upward curling slow, 
The silvery waves half hid with bowering green, 
That far beneath in gentle murmurs flow, 
Or onward dash in foam or sparklmg sheen : [scene. 

While rocks and forest-boughs liide half the distant 
In sooth, from this bright wilderness *tis sweet 
To look through loopholes formed by forest boughs, 
And view the landscape far beneath the feet, 
Where cultivation all its aid bestows, 
And o'er the scene an added beauty throws ; 
The busy harvest group, the distant mill. 
The quiet cattle stretched in calm repose, 
The cot, half seen behind the sloping hill — 

All mingled in one scene with most enchanting skill. 
The very air that breathes around my cheek — 
The summer fragrance of my native hills — 
Seems with the voice of other times to speak. 
And, while it each unquiet feeling stills. 
My pensive soul with hallowed memories fills : 
My fathers' hall is there ; their feet have pressed 
The flower-gemmed margin of these gushing rills. 
When lightly on the water's dimpled breast [rest. 

Their own light bark beside the frail canoe would 
The rock was once your dwelling-place, my sires ! 
Or cavern scooped within the green hill's side ; 
The prowling wolf fled far your beacon fires, 
And the kind Indian half your wants supplied ; 
While round your necks the wampum-belt he tied. 
He bade you on his lands in peace abide. 
Nor dread the wakening of the midnight brand, 

Oraughtof broken faith to loose thepeacebelt'sband. 
Oh ! if there is in beautiful and fair 
A potency to charm, a power to bless ; 
If bright blue skies and music-breathing air. 
And nature in her every varied dress 
Of peaceful beauty and wild loveliness. 
Can shed across the heart one sunshine ray. 
Then others, too, sweet stream, with only less 
Than mine own joy, shall gaze, and bear away [day 

Some cherished thought of thee for many a coming 
But yet not utterly obscure thy banks. 
Nor all unknown to history's page thy name ; 
For there wild war hath poured his battle ranks. 
And stamped in characters of blood and flame, 
Thine annals in the chronicles of fame. 
The wave that ripples on, so calm and still. 
Hath trembled at the war-cry's loud acclaim, 
Tlie cannon's voice hath rolled from hill to hill, 

And midst thy echoing vales the trump hath sounded 
shrill. 
My country's standard waved on yonder height. 
Her red cross banner England there displayed. 
And there the Gennan, who, for foreign fight. 
Had left his own domestic hearth, and made 
War, with its horrors and its blood, a trade. 
Amidst the battle stood ; and all the day, 
The bursting bomb, the furious cannonade. 
The bugle's martial notes, the musket's play. 

In mingled uproar wild, resounded far away. 



Thick clouds of smoke obscured the clear bright 
And hung above them like a funeral pall, [sky, 
Shi'ouding both friend and foe, so soon to lie 
Like brethren slumbering in one father's hall : 
The work of death went on, and when the fall 
Of night came onward silently, and shed 
A dreary hush, where late was uproar all. 
How many a brother's heart in anguish bled [dead. 

O'er cherished ones, who there lay resting with the 
Unshrouded and uncofiined they were laid 
Within the soldier's grave — e'en where they fell : 
At noon they proudly trod the field — the spade 
At night dug out their resting-place ; and well 
And calmly did they slumber, though no bell 
Pealed over them its solemn music slow : 
The night winds sung their only dirge — their knell 
Was but the owlet's boding cry of wo, [ters' flow. 

The flap of nighthawk's wing, and murmuring wa- 
But it is over now — the plough hath rased 
All trace of where War's wasting hand hath been : 
No vestige of the battle may be traced. 
Save where the share, in passing o'er the scene, 
Turns up some rusted ball ; the maize is green 
On what was once the death-bed of the brave ; 
The waters have resumed their wonted sheen. 
The wild bird sings in cadence with the wave. 

And naught remains to show the sleeping soldier's 
grave. 
A pebble-stone that on the war-field lay, 
And a wild rose that blossomed brightly there, 
Were all the relics that I bore away, 
To tell that I had trod the scene of war, 
When I had turned my footsteps homeward far. 
These may seem childish things to some ; to me 
They shall be treasured ones — and, like the star 
That guides the sailor o'er the pathless sea. 

They shall lead back my thoughts, loved Brandy- 
wine, to thee ! 



SUMMER MORNING. 

'Tis beautiful, when first the dewy light 
Breaks on the earth ! while yet the scented air 
Is breathing the cool freshness of the night. 

And the bright clouds a tint of crimson wear 

When every leafy chalice holds a draught 
Of nightly dew, for the hot sun to drink, [laughed 
When streams gush sportively, as though they 
For very joyousness, and seemed to shrink 
In playful terror from the rocky brink 
Of some slight precipice — then with quick leap 
Bound lightly o'er the barrier, and sink 
In their own whirling eddy, and then sweep 
With ripphng music on, or in their channels sleep ! 

While Ughts and shades play on them with each 

breath 
That moves the calm, still waters ; when the fly 
Skims o'er the surface, and all things beneath 
Gleam brightly through the flood, and fish glance 
With a quick flash of beauty ; when the sky [by 
Wears a deep azure brightness, and the song 
Of matin gladness Ufts its voice on high. 
And mingled harmony and perfume throng 
On every whispermg breeze that lightly floats along. 



THE DAVIDSONS. 



The lives of Lucretia Makia and Mae- 
GAKET MiLLEK DAVIDSON, which it IS impos- 
sible to contemplate without emotions of 
admiration and sadness, have been illustra- 
ted at home by Professor Morse, by Wash- 
ington Irving, and by Miss Sedgwick, and 
abroad by Mr. Southey and several other 
authors of well-deserved eminence in the 
literary world. An attempt to invest them 
with any new interest would therefore be 
in vain. It is doubtful whether the annals 
of literary composition can show anything, 
produced at the same age, finer than some 
of their poems ; and the beauty of their char- 
acters, which appear to have had in them 
something of angelic holiness, fitted them as 
well to shine in heaven, as their genius to 
win the applauses of the world. 

Those who are familiar with our literary 
history may remember that a remarkable 
precocity of intellect has been frequently ex- 
hibited in this country. The cases of Lu- 
cretia and Margaret Davidson are perhaps 
more interesting than any which have re- 
ceived the general attention ; but they are 
not the most wonderful that have been known 
here. A few years ago I was shown, by one 
of the house of Harper and Brothers, the 
publishers, some verses by a girl but eight 
years of age — the daughter of a gentleman 
in Connecticut — that seemed not inferior to 
any composed by the Davidsons ; and other 
prodigies of thf same kind are at this time 
exciting the hopes of more than one family. 
Greatness is not often developed in child- 
hood, and where a strange precocity is ob- 
servable, it is generally but an early and 
complete maturity of the mind. We can 
not always decide, to even our own satisfac- 
tion, whether it is so, but as the writings of 
these children, when they were from nine to 
fifteen years of age, exhibited no advance- 
ment, it is reasonable to suppose that, like 
the wonderful boy Zerah Colburn, of Ver- 
mont, whose arithmetical calculations many 
years ago astonished the world, they would 
have possessed in their physical matiurity no 
high or peculiar intellectual qualities. 



The father of Lucretia and Margaret Da- 
vidson was a physician. Their mother's 
maiden name was Margaret Miller. She 
was a woman of an ardent temperament and 
an affectionate disposition, and had been care- 
fully educated. Lucretia was born in the 
village of Plattsburg, in New York, on the 
twenty-seventh of September, ]S08. In her 
infancy she was exceedingly fragile, but she 
grew stronger when about eighteen months 
old, and though less vigorous than most chil- 
dren of her age, suffered little for several 
years from sickness. She learned the al- 
phabet in her third year, and at four was 
sent to a public school, where she was taught 
to read and to form letters in sand, after the 
Lancasterian system. As soon as she could 
read, her time was devoted to the little books 
that were given to her, and to composition. 
Her mother, at one time, wishing to write a 
letter, found that a quire or more of paper 
had disappeared from the place where wri- 
ting implements were kept, and when she 
made inquiries in regard to it, the child came 
forward and acknowledged that she had 
" used it." As Mrs. Davidson knew she had 
not been taught to write, she was surprised, 
and inquired in what manner it had been 
destroyed. Lucretia burst into tears, and 
replied that she did not like to tell. The 
question was not urged. The paper contin- 
ued to disappear, and she was frequently 
observed with little blank books, and pens, 
and ink, sedulously shunning observation. 
At length, when she was about six years old, 
her mother found hidden in a closet, rarely 
opened, a parcel of papers which proved to 
be her manuscript books. On one side of 
each leaf was an artfully sketched picture, 
and on the other, in rudely formed letters, 
were poetical explanations. 

From this time she acquired knowledge 
very rapidly, studying intensely at school, 
and reading in every leisure moment at home. 
When about twelve years of age she accom- 
panied her father to a celebration of the 
birth-night of Washington. She had stud- 
ied the history of the father of his country, 

1.52 



THE DAVIDSONS. 



153. 



and the scene awakened her enthusiasm. 
The next day an older sister found her ab- 
sorbed in writing. She had drawn an urn, 
and written two stanzas beneath it. They 
were shown to her mother, who expressed 
her delight with such animation that the 
child immediately added the concluding ver- 
ses, and returned with the poem as it is 
printed in her Remains : 

And does a hero's dust lie here 1 
Columbia ! gaze and drop a tear ! 
His country's and the orphan's friend, 
See thousands o'er his ashes bend ! 

Among the heroes of the age. 
He was the warrior and the sage : 
He left a train of glory bright. 
Which never will be hid in night. 

The toils of war and danger past, 
He reaps a rich reward at last ; 
His pure soul mounts on cherub's wings, 
And now with saints and angels sings. 

The brightest on the list of fame. 

In golden letters shines his name ; 

Her trump shall sound it through the world. 

And the striped banner ne'er be furled ! 

And every sex, and every age. 
From lisping boy to learned sage, 
The widow, and her orphan son. 
Revere the name of Washington. 

She continued to write with much indus- 
try from this period. In the summer of 1823, 
her health being very feeble, she was with- 
drawn from school, and sent on a visit to 
some friends in Canada. In Montreal she 
was delighted with the public buildings, mar- 
tial parades, pictures, and other novel sights, 
and she returned to Plattsburg with renova- 
ted health. Her sister Margaret was born 
on the twenty-sixth of March, 1823, and a 
few days afterward, while holding the infant 
in her lap, she wrote the following lines : 

Sweet babe ! I can not hope that thou 'It be freed 
From woes, to all since earliest time decreed ; 
But may'st thou be with resignation blessed. 
To bear each evil howsoe'er distressed. 

May Hope her anchor lend amid the storm. 
And o'er the tempest rear her angel form ; 
May sweet Benevolence, whose words are peace. 
To the rude whirlwind softly whisper — cease 1 

And may Religion, Heaven's own darling child. 
Teach thee at human cares and griefs to smile — 
Teach thee to look beyond that world of wo. 
To Heaven's high fount whence mercies ever flow. 
And when this vale of years is safely passed. 
When Death's dark curtain shuts the scene at last. 
May thy freed spirit leave this earthly sod, 
And fly to seek the bosom of thy God. 



In the summer of 1824 she finished her 
longest poem. Amir Khan, and in the autumn 
of the same year was sent to the seminary of 
Mrs. Willard, at Troy, where she remained 
during the winter. In May, 1825, after 
spending several weeks at home, she was 
transferred to a boarding-school at Albany, 
and here her health, which had before been 
slightly affected, rapidly declined. In com- 
pany with her mother, and Mr. Moss Kent, 
a gentleman of fortune, who had undertaken 
to defray the costs of her education, she re- 
turned to Plattsburg in July, and died there 
on the twenty-seventh of August, one month 
before her seventeenth birthday. She re- 
tained, until her death, the purity and sim- 
plicity of childhood, and died in the confident 
hope of immortal happiness. 

Soon after her death, her poems and prose 
writings were published, with a memoir by 
Mr. S. F. B. Morse, of New York, and an 
elaborate biography of her life and character 
has since been written by Miss C. M. Sedg- 
wick, the author of Hope Leslie, etc. The 
following verses are among the most perfect 
she produced. They were addressed to her 
sister, Mrs. Townsend, in her fifteenth year : 

When evening spreads her shades around. 

And darkness fills the arch of heaven ; 
When not a murmur, not a sound, 

To Fancy's sportive ear is given ; 
When the broad orb of heaven is bright. 

And looks around with golden eye ; 
When Nature, softened by her light. 

Seems calmly, solemnly to lie ; 

Then, when our thoughts are raised above 

This world, and all this world can give : 
Oh, sister, sing the song I love. 

And tears of gratitude receive. 
The song which thrills my bosom's core. 

And hovering, trembles, half afraid, 
Oh, sister, sing the song once more 

Which ne'er for mortal ear was made. 
'Twere almost sacrilege to sing 

Those notes amid the glare of day — ■ 
Notes borne by angels' purest wing. 

And wafted by their breath away. 

When sleeping in my grass-grown bed, 
Shouldst thou still Unger here above. 

Wilt thou not kneel beside my head. 
And, sister, sing the song I love 1 

At the same age she wrote these lines To a 

Star: 

Thou brightly glittering star of even, 
Thou gem upon the brow of heaven, 
Oh ! were this fluttering spirit free. 
How quick 'twould spread its wings to thee. 



154 



THE DAVIDSONS. 



How calmly, brightly, dost thou shine, 
Like the pure lamp in Virtue's shrine : 
Sure the fair world which thou may'st boast 
Was never ransomed, never lost. 

There, beings pure as heaven's own air, 
Their hopes, their joys, together share ; 
While hovering angels touch the string. 
And seraphs spread the sheltering wing. 

There, cloudless days and brilliant nights, 
Illumed by Heaven's refulgent lights — 
There seasons, years, unnoticed roll, 
And unregretted by the soul. 

Thou little sparkling star of even, 
Thou gem upon an azure heaven. 
How swiftly will I soar to thee. 
When this imprisoned soul is free. 

In her sixteenth year she wrote Three 
Prophecies, of which the following is one : 

Let me gaze awhile on that marble brow. 
On that full, dark eye, on that cheek's warm glow ; 
Let me gaze for a moment, that, ere I die, 
I may read thee, maiden, a prophecy. 
That brow may beam in glory awhile ; 
That check may bloom, and that lip may smile ; 
That full, dark eye may brightly beam 
In life's gay morn, in hope's young dream ; 
But clouds shall darken that brow of snow. 
And sorrow b'.iglit thy bosom's glow. 
I know b}^ that spirit so haughty and high, 
I know by that brightly flashing eye, 
That, maiden, there's that within thy breast 
Which hath marked thee out for a soul unblessed: 
The strife of love with pride shall wring 
Thy youthful bosom's tenderest string ; 
And the cup of sorrow, mingled for thee. 
Shall be drained to the dregs in agony. 
Yes, maiden, yes, I read in thine eye 
A dark and a doubtful prophecy : 
Thou shalt love, and that love shall be thy curse ; 
Thou wilt need no heavier, thou shalt feel no worse. 
I see the cloud and the tempest near ; 
The voice of the troubled tide I hear ; 
The torrent of sorrow, the sea of grief, 
The rushing waves of a wretched life : 
Thy bosom's bark "on the surge I see, 
And, maiden, thy loved one is there with thee. 
Not a star in the heavens, not a light on the wave : 
Maiden, I've gazed on thine early grave. 
When I am cold, and the hand of Death 
Hath crowned my brow with an icy wreath ; 
When the dew hangs damp on this motionless lip ; 
When this eye is closed in its long, last sleep : 
Then, maiden, pause, when thy heart beats high, 
And think on my last sad prophecy. 

In a more sportive vein is the piece enti- 
tled Auction Extraordinary, written about the 
same period : 

I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers, 
And as fast as I dreamed it, it came into numbers ; 
My thoughts ran along in such beautiful metre, 
I 'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter ; 



It seemed that a law had been recently made, 
That a tax on old bachelors' pates should be laid ; 
And in order to make them all willing to marry. 
The tax was as large as a man could well carry. 
The bachelors grumbled, and said 'twas no use — 
'Twas horrid injustice, and horrid abuse. 
And declared that to save their ovra hearts' blood 

from spilling. 
Of such a vile tax they would not pay a shilling. 
But the rulers determined them still to pursue. 
So they set all the old bachelors up at vendue: 
A crier was sent through the town to and fro, 
To rattle his bell, and his trumpet to blow. 
And to call out to all he might meet in his way, 
" Ho ! forty old bachelors sold here to-day :" 
And presently all the old maids in the tovm, 
Each in her very best bonnet and gown. 
From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red, and pale. 
Of every description, all flocked to the sale. 
The auctioneer then in his labor began. 
And called out aloud, as he held up a man, 
" How much for a bachelor t vvdio wants to buy V 
In a twink, every maiden responded, " I, — I." 
In short, at a highly extravagant price. 
The bachelors all were sold off in a trice : 
And forty old maidens, some younger, some older, 
Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder. 

A few months before her death she wrote 
this address to her mother : 

Oh thou whose care sustained my infant years. 
And taught my prattling lip each-note of love; 

Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears. 
And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove: 

To thee my lay is due, the simplest song, 
Which Nature gave me at life's opening day ; 

To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong. 
Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay. 

Oh say, amid this wilderness of hfe, [me ? 

What bosom would have throbbed like thine for 
Who would have smiled responsive 1 — who in grief 

Would e'er have felt,and,feeling, grieved like thee? 

Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye. 
Each trembling footstep or each sport of fear 1 

Who would have marked my bosom bounding high. 
And clasped me to her heart, with love's bright tear? 

Who would have hung around my sleepless couch. 
And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning brow? 

Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip, 
In all the agony of love and wo 1 

None but a mother — none but one like thee. 
Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch ; 

Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery ; 
Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch. 

Yes, thou hast lighted me to health snd life. 
By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom — 

Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief. 
That wo hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom. 

Oh, then, to thee this rude and simple song. 
Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee. 

To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong. 
Whose life is spent in toil and care for rae. 



THE DAVIDSONS. 



155 



She died with her " singing robes" about 
her, having composed, while confined to her 
bed in her last illness, these verses, expres- 
sive of her fear of madness : 

There is a something which I dread. 

It is a dark, a fearful thing ; 
It steals along with withering tread, 
Or sweeps on wild destruction's whig. 

That thought comes o'er me in the hour 
Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness : 

'Tis not the dread of death — 'tis more, 
It is the dread of madness. 

Oh ! may these throbbing pulses pause. 
Forgetful of their feverish course ; 

May this hot brain, which burning, glows 
With all a fiery whirlpool's force, 

Be cold, and motionless, and still — 

A tenant of its lowly bed ; 
But let not dark delirium steal 

The poem is unfinished, and it is the last 
she wrote. 

Makgaeet Davidson, at the time of the 
death of Lucretia, was not quite two years 
old. The event made a deep and lasting 
impression on her mind. She loved, when 
but three years old, to sit on a cushion at her 
mother's feet, listening to anecdotes of her 
sister's life, and details of the events which 
preceded her death, and would often exclaim, 
while her face beamed with mingled emo- 
tions, " Oh, I will try to fill her place — teach 
me to be like her !" She needed little teach- 
ing. In intelligence, delicacy, and suscep- 
tibility, she surpassed Lucretia. When in 
her sixth year, she could read with fluency, 
and would sit by the bedside of her sick 
mother, reading, with enthusiastic delight 
and appropriate emphasis, the poetry of 
Milton, Cowper, Thomson, and other great 
authors, and marking, with discrimination, 
the passages with which she was most 
pleased. Between the sixth and seventh 
years of her age, she entered on a general 
course of education, studying grammar, ge- 
ography, history, and rhetoric ; but her con- 
stitution had already begun to show symp- 
toms of decay, which rendered it expedient 
to check her application. In her seventh 
summer she was taken to the springs of 
Saratoga, the waters of which seemed to 
have a beneficial effect, and she afterward 
accompanied her parents to New York, with 
which city she was highly delighted. On 
her return to Plattsburg, her strength was 
much increased, aird she resumed her stud- 
ies with great assiduity. In the autumn 



of 1830, however, her health began to fail 
again, and it was thought proper for her and 
her mother to join Mrs. Townsend, an elder 
sister, in an inland town of Canada. She 
remained here until 1833, when she had a 
severe attack of scarlet fever, and on her 
slow recovery it was determined to go again 
to New York. Her residence in the city was 
protracted until the summer heat became 
oppressive, and she expressed her yearnings 
for the banks of the Saranac, in the following 
lines, which are probably equal to any ever 
written by so young an author : 

I would ily from the city, would fly from its care. 
To my own native plants and my flowerets so fair. 
To the cool grassy shade and the rivulet bright. 
Which reflects the pale moon in its bosom of light ; 
Again would I view the old cottage so dear. 
Where I sported, a babe, without sorrow or fear : 
I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay, 
For a peep at my home on this fair summer-day. 
I have friends whom I love, and would leave with 

regret, 
But the love of my home, oh, 'tis tenderer yet; 
There a sister reposes unconscious in death, 
'T was there she first drew, and there yielded her 
A father I love is away ii-om me now — [Ijreath. 
Oh, could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow. 
Or smooth the gray locks to my fond heart so dear. 
How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear : 
Attentive I listen to Pleasure's gay call. 
But my own happy home, it is dearer than all. 

The family soon after became temporary 
residents of the village of Ballston, near Sar- 
atoga, and, in the autumn of 1S35, of Rure- 
mont, on the sound, or East river, about four 
miles from New York. Here they remained, 
except at short intervals, until the summer 
of 1837, when they returned to Ballston. In 
the last two years, Margaret had suffered 
much from illness herself, and had lost by 
death her sister Mrs. Townsend and two 
brothers ; and now her mother became alarm- 
ingly ill. As the season advanced, however, 
health seemed to revisit all the surviving 
members of the family, and Margaret was 
as happy as at any period of her life. Early 
'in 1838, Dr. Davidson took a house in Sara- 
toga, to which he removed on the first of 
May. Here she had an attack of bleeding 
at the lungs, but recovered, and when her 
brothers visited home from New York, she 
returned with them to the city, and remained 
there several weeks. She reached Saratoga 
again in July ; the bloom had for the last 
time left her cheeks ; and she decayed grad- 
ually mrtil the twenty-fifth of November, 



156 



THE DAVIDSONS. 



when her spirit returned to God. She was 
then hut fifteen years and eight months old. 
She was aware of her approaching change, 
and in the preceding September she wrote a 
short poem, characterized by much beauty of 
thought and tenderness of feeling, to lier bro- 
ther, a young officer in the army, stationed 
at a frontier post in the west, in which an 
allusion to the fading verdure, and falling 
leaf, and gathering melancholy, and lifeless 
quiet of the season, as typical of her own 
blighted youth and approaching dissolution, 
is pointed out by Mr. Irving as having in it 
something peculiarly solemn and aflfecting. 
" But when," she says : 

" But when, in the shade of the autumn wood, 

'I'liy wandering footsteps stray ; 
When yellow leaves and perishing buds 

Are scattered in thy way ; 
When all around thee breathes of rest, 

And sadness and decay — 
With the drooping flower, and the fallen tree, 
Oh, brother, blend thy thoughts of me !" 

Her later poems do not seem to me supe- 
rior to some written in her eleventh year, 
and the prose compositions included in the 
volume of her Remains, edited by Mr. Irving, 
are not better than tliose of many girls of 
her age. One of her latest and most perfect 
pieces is the dedication of a poem entitled 
Leonore to the spirit of her sister Lucretia: 

Oh, thou, so early lost, so long deplored ! 

Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near ! 
And while I touch this hallowed harp of thine, 

Bend fi'oru the slues, sweet sister, bend and hear. 

For thee I pour this unaffected lay ; 

To thee these simple numbers all belong; 
For though thine earthly form has passed away, 

Thy memory still inspires my childish song. 

Take, then, this feeble tribute — 'tis thine own — 
Thy fingers sweep my ti'embling heart-strings o'er, 

Arouse to harmony each buried tone. 
And bid its wakened music sleep no more ! 

Long has thy voice been silent, and thy lyre 
Hung o'er thy grave, in death's unbroken rest; 

But when its last sweet tones were borne away, 
One answering echo lingered in my breast. 

Oh, thou pure spirit ! if thou hoverest near, 
Accept these lines, unworthy though they be, 

Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine, 
By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee ! 

Leonore is the longest of her poems, and 
it was commenced after much reflection, and 
written with care and a resolution to do 
something that should serve as the measure 
of her genius, and carry her name into the 



future. It is a story of romantic love, hap- 
pily conceived, and illustrated with some 
fine touches of sentiment and fancy. It is 
a creditable production, and would entitle 
a much older author to consideration ; but 
its best passages scarcely equal some of her 
earlier and less elaborate performances. 

The following lines addressed to her mo- 
ther, a few days before her death, are the 
last she ever wrote : 

Oh, mother, would the power were mine 
To wake the strain thou lovest to hear. 

And breathe each trembling new-born thought 
Within thy fondly listening ear. 

As when, in days of health and glee. 

My hopes and fancies wandered fi-ee. 

But, mother, now a shade hath passed 
Athwart my brightest visions here ; 

A cloud of darkest gloom hath wrapped 
The remnant of my brief career : 

No song, no echo can I win. 

The sparkling fount hath dried within. 

The torch of earthly hope burns dim. 

And fancy spreads her wings no more, 
And oh, how vain and trivial seem 

The pleasures that I prized before ; 
My soul, with trembling steps and slow. 

Is struggling on through doubt and strife ; 
Oh, may it prove, as time rolls on. 

The pathway to eternal life ! 
Then, when my cares and fears are o'er, 
I '11 sing thee as in " days of yore." 

I said that Hope had passed fi'ora earth — 
'Twas but to fold her wings in heaven, 

To whisper of the soul's new birth. 
Of sinners saved and sins forgiven: 

When mine are washed in tears away, 

Then shall my spirit swell the lay. 

When God shall guide my soul above, 
By the soft chords of heavenly love — 
When the vain cares of earth depart, 
And tuneful voices swell my heart. 
Then shall each word, each note I raise, 
Burst forth in pealing hymns of praise: 
And all not offered at his shrine, 
Dear mother, I will place on thine. 

In 18-13, a volume entitled Selections from 
the Writings of Mrs. Margaret M. Davidson, 
the mother of Lucretia Maria and Margaret 
Miller Davidson, was published, with a pref- 
ace by Miss Sedgwick. There is nothing in 
the book to arrest attention. Mrs. Davidson 
has some command of language and a know- 
ledge of versification, and the chief produc- 
tion of her industry in this line is a para- 
phrase of six books of Fingal. Her writings 
are interesting only as indexes to the early 
ctilture of her daughters. 



MARY E. HEWITT. 



The maiden name of Blrs. Hewitt was 
Mart Elizabeth Moore, and she is a na- 
tive of Maiden, a countrj^ town about five 
miles from Boston, iu which city she resided 
until her removal to New York, in 1829, 
about two years after her marriage with Mr. 
James L. Hewitt, now of that city. 

Mrs. Hewitt's earlier poems appeared in 
The Knickerbocker Magazine and other pe- 
riodicals, under the signature of " lone," and 
in 1845 she published in Boston a volume 
entitled Songs of our Land and other Poems, 
which confirmed the high opinions which 



had been formed of her abilities from the 
fugitive pieces that had been popularly at- 
tributed to her. Her compositions in this 
collection show that she has a fine and well- 
cultivated understanding, informed with wo- 
manly feeling and a graceful fancy, and they 
are distinguished in an tmusual degree for 
lyrical power and harmony as well as for 
sweetness of versification. 

Among the more recent productions of 
Mrs. Hewitt are some elegant translations, 
which illustrate her taste and learning and 
fine command of language. 



THE SONGS OF OUR LAND. 

Ye say we sing no household songs. 

To children round our hearths at play ; 
No minstrelsy to us belongs, 

No legend of a bygone day — 
No old tradition of the hills — 
Our giant land no memory fills : 

We have no proud heroic lay. 
Ye ask the time-worn storied page — 
Ye ask the lore of other age. 

From us, a race of yesterday ! 

Of yore, in Britain's feudal halls. 

Where many a storied trophy hung 
With shield and banner on the walls, 

The Bard's high harp was sternly strung 
In praise of war — its fierce dehghts — 
To " heroes of a hundred fights." 

The lofty sounding shell outrung ! 
Gone is the ancient Bardic race : 
Their song hath found perpetual place 

Their country's proud archives among. 

The stirring Scottish border tale 

Pealed from the chords in chieftain's hall. 
The wild traditions of the Gael 

The wandering harper's lays recall. 
Bold themes, Germania, fire thy strings; 
And when the Marseillaise outrings, 

With patriot ardor thrills the Gaul : 
All have their legend and their song. 
Records of glory, feud, and wrong — 

Of conquest wrought, and foeman's fall. 
Fond thought the Switzer's bosom- fills 

When sounds the " Ransdes Vaches"onhigh: 
A race as ancient as their hills 

Still echoes that wild mountain cry. 
He springs along the rocky height. 
He marks the lammergeyer's flight. 



The startled chamois bounding by ; 
He snufis the mountain breeze of mom ; 
He winds again the mountain horn. 

And loud the wakened Alps reply ! 

Our fathers bore from Albion's isle 

No stories of her sounding lyres : 
They left the old baronial pile — 

They left the harp of ringing wires. 
Ours are the legends still rehearsed, 
Ours are the songs that gladsome burst 

By all your cot and palace fires : 
Each tree that in your soft wind stirs, 
Waves o'er our ancient sepulchres, 

The sleeping ashes of our sires ! 

They left the gladsome Christmas chime. 

The yule fire, and the misletoe ; 
They left the vain, ungodly rhyme. 

For hymns the solemn paced and slow ; 
They left the mass, the stoled priest. 
The scarlet woman and the beast. 

For worship rude and altars low : 
Their land, with its dear memories fraught. 
They left for liberty of thought — 

For stranger clime and savage foe. 

And forth they went— nerved to forsake 

Home, and the chain they might not wear ; 
And woman's heart was strong to break 

The Unks of love that bound her there : 
Here, free to worship and believe. 
From many a log-built hut at eve 

Went up the suppliant voice of prayer. 
Is it not writ on history's page. 
That the strong hand grasped our heritage 1 

Of the Hon claimed his forest lair ! 

Our people raised no loud war songs. 
The shouted no fierce battle cry — 

A burning memory of their wrongs 
Lit up their path to victory : 
157 



158 



MARY E. HEWITT. 



With prayer to God to aid the right, 
The yeoman girded him for tight, 

To free the land he tilled, or die. 
They bore no proud escutcheoned shield, 
Wo blazoned banners to the field — 

Naught but their watchword " Liberty !" 

Their sons — when after-years shall fling 

O'er these, romance — when time hath cast 
The mighty shadow of his wing 

Between them and the storied past — 
Will tell of foul oppression's heel, 
Of hands that bore the avenging steel. 

And battled sternly to the last — 
By their hearth-fires — on the fi-ee hill-side : 
So shall our songs, o'er every tide. 

Swell forth triumphant on the blast ! 

E'en now the word that roused our land 

Is calling o'er the wave, " Awake I" 
And pealing on from strand to strand, 

Wherever ocean's surges break : 
Up to the quickened ear of toil 
It rises from the teeming soil. 

And bids the slave his bonds forsake. 
Hark ! firom the mountains to the sea, 
The old world echoes " Liberty I" 

Till thrones to their foundations shake. 

And ye who idly set at naught 

The sacred boon in suffering won. 
Read o'er our page with glory fraught. 

Nor scoff that we no more have done : 
Read how the nation of the free 
Hath carved her deeds in history. 

Nor count them bootless every one — 
Deeds of our mighty men of old. 
Whose names stand evermore enrolled 

Beneath the name of Washington ! 

Oh, mine own fair and glorious land ! 

Did I not hold such faith in thee. 
As did the honored patriot band 

That bled to make thee great and free — 
Did I not look to hear thee sung, 
To hear thy lyre yet proudly strung, 

Thou ne'er had waked my minstrelsy ; 
And I shall hear thy song resound. 
Till from his sjiackies man shall bound. 

And shout, exultant, " Liberty !" 



THE TWO VOICES. 

A VOICE went forth throughout the land, 

And an answering voice replied 
From the rock-piled mountain fastnesses 

To the surging ocean tide. 
And far the blazing headlands gleamed 

With their land-awakening tires ; 
And the hill-tops Idndled, peak and height. 

With a hundred answering pyres. 
The quick youth snatched his father's sword, 

And the yeoman rose in might ; 
And the aged grandsire nerved liim there 

For the stormy tield of tight : 
And the hillmen left their grass-grown steeps, 

And their flocks and herds unkept ; 



And the ploughshare of the husbandman 
In the half-turned furrow slept. 

They wore no steel-wrought panoply, 
Nor shield nor morion gleamed ; 

Nor the flaunt of bannered blazonry 
In the morning sunlight streamed. 

They bore no marshalled, firm array — 

Like a torrent on they poured. 
With the firelock, and the mower's scythe, 

And the old forefathers' sword. 

And again a voice went sounding on, 
And the bonfires streamed on high ; 

And the hill-tops rang to the headlands back, 
With the shout of victory ! 

So the land redeemed her heritage. 
By the free hand mailed in right, 

From the war-shod, hirehng foeman's tread. 
And the ruthless grasp of might. 



THE AXE OF THE SETTLER. 

Thod conqueror of the wilderness. 

With keen and bloodless edge — 
Hail ! to the sturdy artisan 

Who welded thee, bold wedge ! 
Though the warrior deem the weapon 

Fashioned only for the slave, 
Yet the settler knows thee mightier 

Than the tried Damascus glaive. 

While desolation marketh 

The course of foeman's brand, 
Thy strong blow scatters plenty 

And gladness through the land : 
Thou opeat the soil to culture. 

To the sunlight and the dew; 
And the village spire thou plantest 

Wliere of old the forest grew. 

Wlien the broad sea rolled between them 

And their own far native land. 
Thou wert the faithful ally 

Of the hardy pilgrim band. 
They bore no warlike eagles. 

No banners swept the sky ; 
Nor the clarion, like a tempest. 

Swelled its fearful notes on high. 

But the ringing wild reechoed 

Thy bold, resistless stroke, 
Where, like incense, on the morning 

Went up the cabin smoke : 
The tall oaks bowed before thee, 

Like reeds before the blast ; 
And the earth put forth in gladness 

Where the axe in triumph passed. 

Then hail ! thou noble conqueror. 

That, when tyranny oppressed, 
Hewed for our fathers from the wild 

A land wherein to rest : 
Hail, to the power that givetli 

The bounty of the soil. 
And freedom, and an honored name. 

To the hardy sons of toil ! 



MARY E. HEWITT. 



159 



A THOUGHT OP THE PILGRIMS. 

How beauteous in the morning light, 

Bright glittering in her pride, 
Trimountain,* from her ancient height, 

Looks down upon the tide : 
The fond wind woos her from the sea. 
And ocean clasps her lovingly, 

As bridegroom clasps his bride. 

And out across the waters dark. 

Careering on their way. 
Full many a gallant, home-bound bark 

Comes dashing up the bay : 
Their pennons float on morning's gale. 
The sunlight gilds each swelling sail. 

And flashes on the spray. 

Not thus toward fair New England's coast. 

With eager-hearted crew. 
The pilgrim-freighted, tempest-tost, 

And lonely May Flower drew : 
There was no hand outstretched to bless. 
No welcome from the wilderness. 

To cheer her hardy few. 

But onward drove the winter clouds 

Athwart the darkening sky. 
And hoarsely through the stiffened shrouds 

The wind swept stormily ; 
While shrill from out the beetling rock. 
That seemed the billows' force to mock. 

Broke forth the sea-gull's cry. 

God's blessing on their memories ! 

Those sturdy men and bold. 
Who girt their hearts in righteousness. 

Like martyr samts of old ; 
And mid oppression sternly sought, 
To hold the sacred boon of Thought 

In freedom uncontrolled. 

They left the old, ancestral hall 
The creed they might not own ; 

They left home, kindred, fortune, all — 
Left glory and renown : 

For what to them was pride of birth, 

Or what to them the pomp of earth. 
Who sought a heavenly crown 1 

Strong armed in faith they crossed the flood : 

Here, mid the forest fair. 
With axe and mattock, from the wood 

The)' laid broad pastures bare ; 
And with the ploughshare turned the plain. 
And planted fields of yellow grain 

And built their dwelhngs there. 

The pilgrim sires ! — How from the night 

Of centuries dim and vast. 
It comes o'er every hill and height — 

That watchword from the past ! 
And old men's pulses quicker bound. 
And young hearts leap to hear the sound. 

As at the trumpet's blast. 

* Hostnn — built upon three hills — waa originally named, 
by the early settlers, " Trimountain." 



And though the Pilgrim's day hath set. 

Its glorious Ught remains — 
Its beam refulgent lingers yet 

O'er all New England's plains : 
Dear land ! though doomed from thee to part. 
The blood that warmed the Pilgrim's heart 

Swells proudly in my veins ! 

Go to the islands of the sea. 

Wherever man may dare — 
Wherever pagan bows the knee. 

Or Christian bends in prayer — 
To.every shore that bounds the main. 
Wherever keel on strand hath lain — 

New England's sons are there. 

Toil they for wealth on distant coast. 

Roam they from sea to sea : 
Self-exiled, still her children boast 

Their birthplace 'mong the free ; 
Or seek they fame on glory's track. 
Their hearts, like mine, turn ever back. 

New England, unto thee ! 



THE CITY BY THE SEA. 

CnoTVNED v^^th the hoar of centuries, 

There, by the eternal sea. 
High on her misty cape she sits. 

Like an eagle — fearless, free. 

And thus in olden time she sat, 

On that mom of long ago ; 
Mid the roar of Freedom's armament^ 

And the war-bolts of her foe. 

Old Time hath reared her pillared walls. 

Her domes and turrets high : 
With her hundred tall and taperuig spires. 

All flashing to the sky. 

Shall I not sing of thee, beloved 1 

My beautiful, my pride ! 
Thou that towerest in thy queenly grace. 

By the tributary tide. 

There, swan-like crestest thou the waves 
That, enamored, round thee swell — ■ 

Fairer than Aphrodite, couched 
On her foam-wreathed ocean shell. 

Oh, ever, mid this restless hum 

Resounding from the street, 
Of the thronging, hurrying multitude. 

And the tread of stranger feet — 

My heart turns back to thee — mine own ! 

My beautiful, my pride I 
With thought of thy free ocean wind. 

And the clasping, fond old tide — 

With all thy kindred household smokes, 

Upwreathing far away ; 
And the merry bells that pealed as now 

On my grandsire's wedding-day : 
To those green graves and truthfiil hearts, 

Oh, city by the sea ! 
My heritage, and priceless dower. 

My beautiful, in thee ! 



160 



MARY E. HEWITT. 



THE SUNFLOWER TO THE SUN. 

Htmettus' bees are out on filmy wing. 
Dim Phosphor slowly fades ailown the west, 

And Earth awakes. Shine on me, oh my king ! 
For I with dew am laden and oppressed. 

Long through the misty clouds of morning gray 
The flowers have watched to hail thee from yon 

Sad Asphodel, that pines to meet thy ray, [sea : 
And Juno's roses, pale for love of thee. 

Perchance thou dalliest with the Mornmg Hour, 
Whose blush is reddening now the eastern wave ; 

Or to the cloud for ever leav'st thy flower. 
Wiled by the glance white-footed Thetis gave. 

I was a proud Chaldean monarch's child !* 
Euphrates' waters told me I was fair — 

And thou, Thessalia's shepherd, on me smiled, 
And likened to thine own my amber hair. 

Thou art my life — sustainer of my spirit ! 

Leave me not then in darkness here to pine ; 
Other hearts love thee, yet do they inherit 

A passionate devotedness like mine 1 

But lo I thou lift'st thy shield o'er yonder tide : 
The gray clouds fly before the conquering Sun ; 

Thou like a monarch up the heavens dost ride — 
And, joy ! thou beamst on me, celestial one ! 

On me, thy worshipper, thy poor Parsee, 
Whose brow adoring types thy face divine — 

God of my burning heart's idolatry. 
Take root like me, or give me life like thine ! 



THE LAST CHANT OF CORINNE. 

Bv that mysterious sympathy which chaineth 

For evermore my spirit unto thine ; 
And by the memory, that alone remaineth, 

Of that sweet hope that now no more is mine ; 
And by the love my trembling heart betrayeth, 

That, born of thy sofl; gaze, within me lies ; 
As the lone desert-bird, the Arab sayeth. 

Warms her young brood to life with her fond eyes : 

Hear me, adored one ! though the world divide us, 

Thougli never more my hand in thine be pressed. 
Though to cornmingle thought be here denied us, 

Till our high hearts shall beat themselves to rest ; 
Forget me not, forget me not ! oh, ever 

This one, one prayer, my spirit pours to thee ; 
Till every memory from earth shall sever, 

Remember, oh, beloved ! remember me ! 

And when the light within mine eye is shaded, 

When I, o'erwearied, sleep the sleep profound. 
And like that nymph of yore whodrooped and faded, 

And pined for love, till she became a sound ; 
My song, perchance, awhile to earth remaining. 

Shall come in murmured melody to thee : 
Then let my lyre's deep, passionate complaining, 

Cry to thy heart, beloved — " Remember me !" 

* Clytia, daughter of Orchamue. king of Babylon, was 
beloved by Apollo ; but the god deserting her, she pined 
away with continually gazing on the sun, and was changed 
to the iiower denominated from him, which turns as he 
moves, to look at his light. 



GREEN PLACES IN THE CITY. 

Ye fill my heart with gladness, verdant places, 

That raid the city greet me where I pass ; 
Methinks I see of angel-steps the traces 

Where'er upon my pathway springs the grass. 
I pause before your gates at early morning, 

When lies the sward with glittering sheen o'er- 
spread ; 
And think the dewdrops there each blade adorning, 

Are angels' tears for mortal frailty shed. 

And ye, earth's firstlings, here in beauty springing, 

Erst in your cells by careful Winter nursed — 
And to the morning heaven your incense flinging, 

As at His smile ye forth in gladness burst — 
How do ye cheer with hope my lonely hour, 

When on my way I tread despondingly. 
With thought that He who careth for the flower. 

Will, in his mercy, still remember me ! 

Breath of our nostrils — Thou ! whose love embraces. 

Whose light shall never fi-om our souls depart, 
Beneath thy touch hath sprung a green oasis 

Amid the arid desert of my heart. 
Thy sun and rain call forth the bud of promise. 

And with fresh leaves in spring-time deck the tree ; 
That where man's hand hath shut out Nature from 

We, by these gUmpses, may remember Thee 1 [us, 



CAMEOS. 

HEKCtTLES AND OSTPHALE. 

Reclined enervate on the couch of ease. 
No more he pants for deeds of high emprise ; 
For Pleasure holds in soft, voluptuous ties 

Enthralled, great Jove-descended Hercules. 

The hand that bound the Erymanthian boar, 
Hesperia's dragon slew, with bold intent — 
That from his quivering side in triumph rent 

The skin the Cleonsean lion wore. 

Holds forth the goblet — while the Lydian queen, 
Rob'd like a nymph, her browenwreath'd with vine, 
Lifts high the amphora, brimmed with rosy wine, 

And pours the draught the crowned cup within. 

And thus the soul, abased to sensual sway. 

Its worth forsakes — its might forgoes for aye. 



TITTOS chained IN TARTARUS. 

Oa, wondrous marvel of the sculptor's art ! 
What cunninghand hath cuU'd thee fi-om the mine. 
And carved thee into life, with skill divine ! 
How claims in thee Humanity a part- 
Seems irora the gem the form enchained to start, 
While thus with fiery eye. and outspread wings, 
The ruthless vulture to his victim clings. 
With whetted beak deep in the quivering heart. 
Oh, thou embodied meaning, master-wrought ! 
Thus taught the sage, how, sunk in crime and sin. 
The soul a prey to conscience, writhes within 
Its fleshly bonds enslaved : thus ever. Thought, 
The bfeast's keen torturer, remorseful tears 
At life, the hell whose chain the soul in anguish 



MARY E. HEWITT. 



161 



A YARN. 

" 'Tis Saturday night, and our watch below — 
What heed we, boys, how the breezes blow, 
While our cans are brimmed with the sparkling flow: 
Come, Jack — uncoil, as we pass the grog, 
And spin us a yarn from memory's log." 

Jack's brawny chest like the broad sea heaved, 
While his loving lip to the beaker cleaved ; 
And he drew his tan'ed and well-saved sleeve 
Across his mouth, as he drained the can. 
And thus to his listening mates began : 

" When I sailed a boy. in the schooner Mike, 
No bigger, I trow, than a marlmspike — 
But I've told ye the tale ere now, belike 1" 
" Go on !" each voice reechoed, 
And the tar thrice hemmed, and thus he said : 

" A stanch-built craft as the waves e'er bore — 
We had loosed our sails for home once more, 
Freighted full deep from Labrador, 
When a cloud one night rose on our lee, 
That the heart of the stoutest quailed to see. 

And voices wild with the winds were blent, 
As our bark her prow to the waters bent ; 
And the seamen muttered their discontent — 
Muttered and nodded ominously — 
But the mate, right carelessly whistled he. 

' Our bark may never outride the gale — 
'T is a pitiless night ! the pattering hail 
Hath coated each spar as 't were in mail ; 
And our sails are riven before the breeze. 
While our cordage and shrouds into icicles fireeze !' 

Thus spake the skipper beside the mast. 
While the arrowy sleet fell thick and fast ; 
And our bark drove onward before the blast 
That goaded the waves, till the angry main 
Kose up and strove with the hurricane. 

Up spake the mate, and his tone was gay — 
' Shall we at this hour to fear give way 1 
We must labor, in sooth, as well as pray : 
Out, shipmates, and grapple home yonder sail, 
That flutters in ribands before the gale !' 

Loud swelled the tempest, and rose the shriek — 
' Save, save ! we are sinking ! — A leak ! a leak !' 
And the hale old skipper's tawny cheek 
Was cold, as 'twere sculptured in marble there, 
And white as the foam, or his own white hair. 

The wind piped shrilly, the wind piped loud — 
It sluieked 'mong the cordage, it howled in the 

shroud ; 
And the sleet fell thick from the cold, dun cloud : 
But high over all, in tones of glee. 
The voice of the mate rang cheerily — 

' Now, men, for your wives' and your sweethearts' 



Cheer, messmates, cheer ! — quick ! man the brakes ! 
M'e 'II gain on the leak ere the skipper wakes ; 
And though our peril your hearts appal. 
Ere dawns the morrow we '11 laugh at the 
squall.' 



He railed at the tempest, he laughed at its threats, 
He played with his fingers like castanets : 
Yet think not that he, in his mirth, forgets 
That the plank he is riding this hour at sea, 
May launch him the next to eternity ! 

The white-haired skipper turned away, 
And Ufted his hands, as it were to pray ; 
But his look spoke plainly as look could say, 
The boastful thought of the Pharisee — 
' Thank God, I 'm not hardened as others be !' 

But the morning dawned, and the waves sank low, 
And the winds, o'erwearied, forbore to blow ; 
And our bark lay there in the golden glow — 
Flashing she lay in the bright sunshine, 
An ice-sheathed hulk on the cold, still brine. 

Well, shipmates, my yarn is almost spun — 
The cold and the tempest their work had done, 
And I was the last, lone, Uving one, 
Clinging, benumbed, to that wave-girt wreck, 
While the dead around me bestrewed the deck. 

Yea, the dead were round me everywhere ! 
The skipper gray, in the sunlight there. 
Still lifted his paralyzed hands in prayer ; [leapt. 
And the mate, whose tones through the darkness 
In the silent hush of the morning, slept. 

Oh, bravely he perished who sought to save 
Our storm-tossed bark from the pitiless wave. 
And her crew from a yawning and fathomless grave : 
Crying, ' Messmates cheer !' with a bright.glad smile, 
And praying, ' Be merciful, God !' the while. 

True to his trust, to his last chill gasp. 
The helm lay clutched in his stifi^ cold gi'asp — 
You might scarcely in death undo the clasp : 
And his crisp, brown locks were dank and thin. 
And the icicles hung from his bearded cliin. 

My timbers have weathered, since, many a gale ; 
And when life's tempests this hulk assail, 
And the binnacle lamp in my breast burns pale, 
' Cheer, messmates, cheer V to my heart I say, 
' We must labor, in sooth, as well as pray !' " 



IMITATION OF SAPPHO. 

If to repeat thy name when none may hear me, 
To find thy thought with all my thoughts inwove ; 

To languish where thou 'rt not — to sigh when near 
Oh, if this be to love thee, I do love ! [thee : 

If when thou utterest low words of greeting. 
To feel through every vein the torrent pour ; 

Then back again the hot tide swift retreating, 
Leave me all powerless, silent as before : 

If to list breathless to thine accents falling. 
Almost to pain, upon my eager ear — 

And fondly when alone to be recalling 
The words that I would die again to hear : 

If 'neath thy glance my heart all strength forsaking, 
Pant in my breast as pants the frighted dove ; 

If to think on thee ever, sleeping — waking — 
Oh ! if this be to love thee, I do love ! 



162 



MARY E. HEWITT. 



LOVE'S PLEADING. 

Speak tender words, mine own beloved, to me — 

Call me thy lily — thy imperial one, 
That, like the Persian, breathes adoringly 

Its fragrant worship ever to the sun. 

Speak tender words, lest doubt with me prevail : 
Call me thy rose — thy queen rose ! throned apart, 

That all unheedful of the nightingale, 
Folds close the dew within her burning heart. 

For thou'rt the sun that makes my heaven fair. 
Thy love, the blest dew that sustains me here ; 

And like the plant that hath its root in air, 
I only live within thy atmosphere. 

Look on me with those soul-illumined eyes. 
And murmur low in love's entrancing tone — 

Methinks the angel-lute of paradise 
Had never voice so thrilling as thine own ! 

Say I am dearer to thee than renown. 
My praise more treasured than the world's acclaim : 

Call me thy laurel — thy victorious crown. 
Wreathed in unfading glory round thy name. 

Breathe low to me each pure, enraptured thought, 
While thus thy arms my trusting heart entwine : 

Call me by all fond meanings love hath wrought, 
But oh, lanthis, ever call me thine ! 



THE HEARTH OF HOME. 

The storm around my dwelling sweeps, 
And while the boughs it fiercely reaps. 
My heart within a vigil keeps. 

The warm and cheering hearth beside ; 
And as I mark the kindling glow 
Brightly o'er all its radiance throw. 
Back to the years my memories flow, 

When Rome sat on her hills in pride ; 
When every stream, and grove, and tree. 
And fountain, had its deity. 

The hearth was then, 'mong low and great, 

Unto the Lares consecrate : 

n^he youth, arrived to man's estate, 

There offered up his golden heart ; 
Thither, when overwhelmed with dread. 
The stranger still for refuge fled — 
Was kindly cheered, and warmed, and fed, 

Till he might fearless thence depart : 
And there the slave, a slave no more. 
Hung reverent up the chain he wore. 

Full many a change the hearth hath knovra ; 
The Druid fire, the curfew's tone, 
The log that bright at yule-tide shone. 

The meny sports of Hallow-e'en : 
Yet still where'er a home is found, 
Gather the warm affections round. 
And there the notes of mirth resound — 

The voice of wisdom heard between : 
And welcomed there with words of grace. 
The stranger finds a resting place. 

Oh, wheresoe'er our feet may roam, 
Still sacred is the hearth of home ; 



Whether beneath the princely dome, 

Or peasant's lowly roof it be, 
For home the wanderer ever yearns ; 
Backward to where its hearth-fire burns, 
Like to the wife of old, he turns 

Fondly the eyes of memory : 
Back where his heart he offered first — • 
Back where his fair, young hopes he nursed. 

My humble hearth though all disdain, 
Here may I cast aside the chain 
The world hath coldly on me lain — 

Here to my Lares offer up 
The warm prayer of a grateful heart : 
Thou that my household Guardian art, 
That dost to me thine aid impart. 

And with thy mercy fiU'st my cup — 
Strengthen the hope within my soul, 
Till I in faith may reach the goal ! 



THE LAUNCH. 

A souHD through old Trimountain went, 

A voice to great and small. 
That told of feast and merriment, 

And welcome kind to all : 
And there was gathering in the hall, 

And gathering on the strand ; 
And many a heart beat anxiously 

That morning, on the sand : 

For 'tis the morn when ocean tide, 

An hundred tongues record. 
Shall wed the daughter of the oak — 

The mighty forest lord. 

They dressed the bride in streamers gay. 

Her beauty to enhance ; 
And o'er her hung Columbia's stars, 

And the tri-fold flag of France ; 
They decked her prow vrith rare device, 

With wealth of carving good ; 
And they girt her with a golden zone, 

The maiden of the wood. 

The gay tones of the artisan 

Fell lightly on the ear. 
And sound of vigorous hammer stroke 

Rang loudly out and clear ; 
And stout arms swayed the ponderous sledge, 

While a shout the hills awoke, 
As forth to meet the bridegroom flood 

Swept the daughter of the oak. 

And bending to the jewelled spray 

That rose her step to greet. 
She dashed aside the yesty waves 

That gathered round her feet ; 
And down her path right gracefully. 

The queenly maiden pressed. 
Till the royal ocean clasped her form 

To his broad and heaving breast. 

God guide thee o'er the trackless deep, 

My brother — ^brave and true ; 
God speed the good Damascus well, 

And shield her daring crew ! 



MARY E. 


HEWITT. 163 


THE ODE OF HAROLD THE VALIANT. 


Where o'er the bending ice 




I skim the strong river. 




Forth to my rapid oar 


I 3III) the hills was born, 


The boat swiftly springeth — 


Where the skilled bowmen 


Springs like the mettled steed 


Send, with unerring shaft, 


When the spur stingeth. 


Death to the foemen. 


Valiant I am in fight. 


But I love to steer my bark — 


No fear restrains me, &c. 


To fear a stranger — 




Over the Maelstrom's edge, 


Saith she, the maiden fair. 


Daring the danger ; 


The Norsemen are cravens 1 


And where the mariner 


I in the Southland gave 


Paleth affrighted. 
Over the sunken rocks 


A feast to the ravens ! 
Green lay the sward outspread. 


I dash on delighted. 


The bright sun was o'er us, 


The far waters know my keel — 


When the strong fighting men 


No tide restrains me ; 


Rushed down before us. 


But ah ! a Russian maid 


Midway to meet the shock 


Coldly disdains me. 


My fleet courser bore me, 


And like Thor's hammer crashed 


Once to SiciUa's isle 


My strong hand before me ! 


Voyaged I, unfearing : 


Left we their maids in tears. 


Conflict was on my prow, 


Their city in embers : 


Glory was steering. 


The sound of the Viking's spears 


Where fled the stranger-ship 


The Southland remembers ! 


Wildly before me. 


I love the combat fierce, &c. 


Down, like the hungry hawk, 
My vessel bore me ; 




* 


We carved on the craven's deck 


LAY. 


The red runes of slaughter : 


A LAT of love ! ask yonder sea 


When my bird whets her beak, 


For wealth its waves have closed upon — 


Our spears give no quarter ! 


A song from stern Thermopylae — 
A battle-shout from Marathon ! 


The far waters know my keel, &c. 


Countless, like spears of grain, 


Look on my brow ! Reveals it naught 1 


Were the wamors of Drontheim, 


It hideth deep rememberings. 


When like the hurricane 


Enduring as the records wrought 


I swept down upon them ! 


Within the tombs of Egypt's kings! 


Like chaff beneath the flail 


Take thou the harp — I may not sing — 


They fell in their numbers — 


Awake the Teian lay divine, 


Their king with the golden hair 


Till fire from every glowing string 


I sent to his slumbers. 


Shall mingle with the flashing wine ! 


I love the combat fierce, &c. 


The Theban lyre but to the sun 


Once o'er the Baltic sea 


Gave forth at morn its ansvv-ering tone : 


Swift we were dashing ; 


So mine but echoed when the one. 


Bright on our twenty spears 


One sunlit glance was o'er it thrown. 


SunUght was flashing ; 


The Memnon sounds no more ! my lyre — 


When through the Skagerack 


A veil upon thy strings is flung ; 


The storm-wind was driven, 


I may not wake the chords of fire — 


And from our bending, mast 


The words that burn upon my tongue. 


The broad sail was riven : 


Fill high the cup ! I may not sing— 


Then, while the angry brine 


My hands the crowning buds will twine : 


Foamed like a flagon. 


Pour — till the wreath I o'er it fling 


BrimfuU the yesty rhime 


Shall mingle with the rosy wine. 


Filled our brown dragon; 


No lay of love ! the lava-stream 


But I, with sinewy hand. 


Hath left its trace on heart and brain ! 


Strengthened in slaughter, 


No more — no more ! the maddening theme 
Will wake the slumbering fires again ! 

Fling back the shroud on buried years — 
Hail, to the ever-blooming hours ! 


Forth from the straining ship 
Bailed the dun water : 

I love the combat fierce, &c. 


Firmly I curb ray steed, 


We'll fill Time's glass with ruby tears, 


As e'er Thracian horseman ; 


And twine his bald, old brow with flowers ! 


My hand throws the javelin true, 


Fill high ! fill high ! I may not sing — 


Pride of the Norseman ; 


Strike forth the Teian lay divine, 


And the bold skaiter marks. 


Till fire from every glowing string 


While his lips quiver, 


Shall mingle with the flashing wine ! 



SUSAN R. A. BARNES. 



Miss Susan Rebecca Ayee, now Mrs. 
Baknes, is a daughter of the Hon. Richard 
H. Ayer, of the city of Manchester, in New 
Hampshire. Her family has furnished sev- 
eral names distinguished in public affairs and 
in literature. Mr. John Greene, the banker, 
of Paris, is her maternal uncle, and the ac- 
complished scholar and writer, Mr. Nathan- 
iel Greene, of Boston, is nearly related to her. 



Her associations have therefore been preemi- 
nently favorable to the cultivation of her abil- 
ities. Her poems are marked by many feli- 
cities of expression ; and they frequently com- 
bine a masculine vigor of style with tender- 
ness and a passionate earnestness of feeling. 
Mrs. Barnes now resides with her father, in 
Manchester. Her native place is Hooksett, 
in the same state. 



IMALEE: 

AN EASTERN LEGEND 

Shrined in the bosom of the Indian sea, 
Where ceaseless Summer smiles perpetually, 
A festal glory o'er the tropic thrown. 
To other lands and other climes unknown — 
By friends untrodden, unprofaned by foes, 
The bright isle of the Indian god arose. 
There waving mid a wilderness of green. 
The palm-tree spread its leaf of glossy sheen ; 
The tamai-ind blossom floating on the gale. 
Bore breathing odors to the passing sail ; 
The banyan's broad, interminable shade 
A bower of bright, perennial beauty made ; 
And from the rock's deep cletl, by Nature nurst. 
The tropic's floral wealth in splendor burst. 
It seemed that Nature, revelling in bloom. 
Here claimed exemption from the general doom : 
Perpetual verdure o'er the seasons reigned. 
Perpetual beauty every sense enchained ; 
And here the Indian, Nature's untaught child. 
The simple savage of a sunny wild. 
Deemed that the spirit whom he worshipped dwelt. 
And here at eve in adoration knelt 
The Indian maiden — sacred to the power 
So deeply reverenced, day's departing hour 

The shadows deepen o'er the summer sea. 
The breeze is up — the ripple murmurs free ; 
A single sail in the dim distance holds 
Its onward course, though twiUght's darkening folds. 
Descending, deepening, veil the lessening prow ; 
And now it nears the sacred isle, and now 
A single, solitary form is seen — 
A fearless foot hath pressed the yielding green ! — 
And Imalee, the dark-browed Indian maid, 
At this dim hour, unshrinking, undismayed. 
With step that borrows firmness from despair — 
With eye that tells what woman's soul will dare. 
When wars the spirit in its prisoned home, 
Till Reason yielding, trembles on her throne — 
Hath sought the shrine, unmindful of the hour, 
To hold dark commune with an urdtnown power. 



Around, a paradise of bloom is shed ; 
The cocoa breathes its blossoms o'er her head ; 
The scarlet bombex clusters at her feet, 
And bloom and fragrance unregarded meet ; 
While heavy with the gUttering dews of night. 
The leaf is gi-eener and the flower more bright. 

The maiden hung her wreath upon the slurme, 
An offering to the power she deemed divine, 
When soft and low a breathing whisper came 
That thrilled through every fibre of her frame ; 
That spirit-voice all tremulous she hears — 
" Withm thy wreath a withered rose appears !" 

" There is — there is — fit emblem of my heart ; 
Oh, Power benign ! thme influence impart 
To raise, restore, and renovate for me, 
That withered flower, or bid its memory flee ! 
I flung it from me in an idle hour. 
In the first dream of conscious maiden power : 
That dream is o'er, and I have hved to wake, 
To wish my bursting heart indeed might break !" 

Again that voice is stealing on her ear, 
That spirit-voice, but not in tones of fear ; 
It murmurs in a soft, familiar tone, 
It thrills her heart, but why, she dares not own : 
Her head is raised, her cheek like sunset glows ; 
Again it breathes, " Wilt thou restore the rose V 
And mid the waving foliage's deepening green 
A well remembered form is dimly seen. 

That eve it had been hers unmoved to mark 
The shadows deepening round her lonely bark ; 
A darker shadow brooded o'er her rest, 
A deeper desolation veiled her breast ; 
And she who had in tearless sadness sought 
The hauntedshade where godsand demons wrought. 
And there unmoved her fearful vigil kept. 
Now bowed her head, and like an infant wept. 

Abroad once more upon the starlit sea. 
The sounding surge is musical to thee ; 
The deepening shadows lose their ghastly gloom, 
The distant shades are redolent of bloom ; 
The sky is cloudless and the air is babn. 
The tropic night's peculiar, breathing calm — 
Bright Imalee, 't is thine once more to own. 
Abroad upon the wave — but not alone. 



SUSAN R A. BARNES. 



165 



THE ARMY OF THE CROSS. 

It must have been a glorious sight, 

And one which to behold 
Would stir the sternest spirit's depths, 

Those armed bands of old ! 
The glittering panoply of proof, 

The helmet and the shield, 
The speai and ponderous battle-axe, 

Which only they could wield ! 

The knightly daring — high resolve, 

Engraven on each brow, 
The manly form of iron mould — 

Methinks I see them now, 
As fresh and vi\'idly they rise. 

To bid the bosom glow. 
As when they burst upon the eye 

A thousand years ago ! 

And 'neath that burning Syrian sun. 

Far as the eye can measure. 
Prepared to pour like water forth 

Their life-blood and their treasure — 
Those banded legions pressing on, 

The red-cross banner flying. 
And thousands seeking 'neath that sign 

The glorious need of dying ! 

Oh holy, pure, and heartfelt zeal, 

Misguided though thou be, 
There still is something heavenly bright 

And beautiful in thee ! 
And He who judges not as man, 

'T is his alone to try thee. 
And thou wilt meet that grace from him 

Thy brother would deny thee. 

Assailed without, begirt within 

By those who hate and fear thee. 
Though Danger lurks within thy path, 

And Death is busy near thee — 
As reckless of continual toil 

As if that frame were iron, 
A glorious destiny is thine, 

Undaunted Coeur de Lion ! 

God speed thee on thine enterprise. 

Lord of the lion heart ; 
Go — mid " the rapture of the strife" 

Enact thy princely part : 
Do battle with the infidel. 

And smite his haughty brow. 
And plant the standard of the cross 

Where waves the crescent now ! 

The blood of the Plantagenets 

Is bounding in thy veins, 
The soul of the Plantagenets 

Within thy bosom reigns ; 
And deeds that breathe of fiiture fame. 

And deathless meed assign, 
Desires not conquest e'en can tame, 

And beauty's smile, are thine ! 

The story of thy knightly faith. 

As ages roll along. 
Shall brighten o'er the poet's page. 

And wake the minstrel's song : 



Ay — to the tale of high emprise. 
The daring deed and bold, 

The spirit leaps as wildly now 
As in those days of old ! 



PENITENCE. 

Thou art not penitent, although 

There rages in thy brain 
A scorching madness undefined. 

Whose very breath is flame. 
Thou art not penitent : alas ! 

The world hath wounded thee. 
And thou in anguish ill concealed 

Art fain to turn and flee. 

Thou hast in Pleasure's maddening cup — 

That cup too deeply quaffed — 
The pearl of thy existence thrown. 

And drained it at a draught ! 
Unmoumed and unrepressed, behold 

Life's energies decline — 
Worn, wasted in unholy fires : 

And what reward is thine 1 

The world, once worshipped, spurns thee now. 

Rejects thee — casts thee hence — 
And thou art nursing injured pride, 

And dreamst of penitence I 
Let but the temptress smile again. 

Thou wouldst her influence own. 
Forgetting in that charmed embrace 

The evil thou hadst known. 

Thou bringest not a broken heart 

To offer at the throne 
Of Him who has in love declared 

The broken heart his own. 
Thy heart is hard — thou who hast long 

The path of error trod ; 
Deemst thou that weak and wicked thing 

An offering meet for God 1 

Go, if thou canst, when Flattery's voice 

Is stealing on thine ear 
In tones so sweet, an angel might. 

Forgetting, turn to hear — 
Go, rather list the voice within. 

And bow beneath the rod. 
And recognise with soul subdued 

The chastening of thy God ! 
Go to the wretch who may have wrought 

Irreparable ill, 
To thee, or those more deeply dear. 

More fondly cherished still ; 
Approach, though it may seem like death 

To look on him, and live, 
And while Revenge is wooing thee. 

Say firmly, " I forgive." 
Go, when to deep idolatry 

Thy heart is darkly prone — 
That heart whose steadfast hope should still 

Be fixed on God alone : 
Go, rend the image from its shrine, 

And hurl the idol hence, 
And bring it bleeding back to Him : 

This — this is penitence ! 



I 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



Mrs. Whitman is a native of Providence. 
Her father, the late Mr. Nicholas Power, a 
merchant of that city, was a lineal descend- 
ant of that Nicholas Power who accompanied 
Roger Williams in his banishment, and as- 
sisted him in establishing the first of govern- 
ments which claimed no authority over the 
conscience. The founder of her family in 
Rhode Island appears to have been worthy of 
his fraternity with the new Baptist, preaching 
the gospel of liberty in the wilderness, and the 
Massachusetts General Court made him feel 
the weight of its displeasure for advancing so 
much faster than itself in civilization. 

Miss Power married at an early age Mr. 
John Winslow Whitman, a son of Mr. Kil- 
born Whitman, an eminent citizen of Mas- 
sachusetts, and a descendant from Edward 
Winslow, the first governor of Plymouth. 
Mr. Whitman's childhood was passed with 
his grandfather. Dr. Isaac Winslow, upon 
the only estate which at that time remained 
by uninterrupted transmission in the families 
of the Pilgrims. Mrs. Whitman has pub- 
lished an interesting account of a visit to the 
old mansion, soon after the death of Dr. Wins- 
low, while it was still graced with the rich- 
ly-carved oaken chairs and massive tables 
brought over in the May Flower, and its ven- 
erable walls were decorated with the family 
portraits, that have since been deposited in 
the halls of the Antiquarian and Historical 
Societies of JMassachusetts. 

Mr. Whitman was graduated at Brown 
University, and, afier completing his studies 
in the law, began to practise in the courts of 
Boston, where his fine abilities gave promise 
of a brilliant career ; but a lingering illness 
soon compelled him lo abandon his profes- 
sion, and after a brief union his wife re- 
turned, a widow, to the house of her mother, 
in her native city. 

From this period she has devoted her time 
chiefly to literary studies. To a knowledge 
of the best English authors she has added a 
familiarity with the languages and literatures 
of Crennany, Italy, and France. She has giv- 
en her most loving attention to the poets, 
critics, and philosophers, of the first of these 



countries, who have in a larger degree than 
any others formed her own tastes and opin- 
ions. These are exhibited in several strilcing 
and brilliant papers in the periodicals ; and 
particularly in her article on G-oethe's Con- 
versations with Eckermann, in the Boston 
Quarterly Review, for January, 1840, and in 
her notice of Emerson's Essays, in the 'Dem- 
ocratic Review, for June, 1845. 

Of the poems of Mrs. Whitman, one enti- 
tled Hours of Life contains probably the finest 
passages, though it is perliaps somewhat too 
mystical and metaphysical to be very popular. 
This has not been printed. The most care- 
fully elaborated of her published poems are 
three Fairy Ballads — The Golden Ball, The 
Sleeping Beauty, and Cinderilla — in the com- 
position of which she has been assisted by 
her sister, Miss Anna Marsh Power. To 
these are prefixed the lines of Burns : 

" Full oft the Muse, as frugal housewives do, 
Gars auld claes look amiiist as weel as new." 

Nothing can be finer in i ts way than the Sleep- 
ing Beauty of Tennyson , but that brilliant po- 
et has given only an episode of the beautiful 
legend, which is here presented with so much 
clearness of narrative, propriety of illustra- 
tion, and splendor of coloring. Cinderilla is 
longer than the Sleeping Beauty, to the som- 
bre character of which its polished and glow- 
ing vivacity presents a pleasing contrast. 

Mrs. Whitman's poems all betray the lux- 
uriant delight with which she abandons her- 
self to her inspirations. The silvery sweet- 
ness and clearness of her versification, the 
varied modulations of emphasis and cadence, 
the many nice adaptations of sound to sense, 
would alone entitle her poems to rank among 
our most exquisite lyrics; but these subtle 
intertwinings and linked harmonies of her 
style are ennobled by thoughts full of origi- 
nality and beauty, and enriched by illustra- 
tions drawn from a wide range of literary cul- 
ture. She has not only the artist eye which 
sees at a glance all that outline and color can 
express, but she gives us the breathing per- 
fumes, the atmospheric efl'ects, and the spir- 
itual character, of the scenes that live in her 
numbers. 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



167 



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY: 

'A TALE OF FORESTS AND ENCHANTMENTS DKEAR." 

It Penseroao, 

Sister, 'tis tlie noon of night ! — 

Lei us, in tlie web of thou^ljt, 
Weape the threads of ancient song, 

From the reajms of Faiiiea brought. 
Thou Shalt stain the dusky warp 

In nightshade wet with tv;ihgbt dew: 
1 , with elreaiia of morning golf. 

Will strike the fabric through and through. * 

Where a lone castle hy the sea 

Upreared its dark and mouldering pile, 
Far seen, with all its frowning towers. 

For many and many a weary mile ; 
The wild waves beat the castle walls. 

And bathed the rock with ceaseless showers, 
The winds roared fiercely round the pile, 

And moaned along its mouldering towers. 
Within those wide and echoing halls. 

To guard her from a fatal spell, 
A maid of noble lineage born 

Was doomed in solitude to dwell. 
Five fairies graced the infant's birth 

With fame and beauty, wealth and power ; 
The sixth, by one fell stroke, reversed 

The lavish splendors of her dower. 
Whene'er the orphan's lily hand 

A spindle's shining point should pierce, 
She swore upon her magic wand, 

The maid should sleep a hundred years. 
The wild waves beat the castle wall, 

And bathed the rock with ceaseless showers ; 
Dark, heaving billows plunge and fall 

In whitening foam beneath the towers. 
There, rocked by winds and lulled by waves, 

In youthful grace the maiden grew, 
And from her solitary dreams 

A sweet and pensive pleasure drew. 
Yet often, from her lattice high, 

She gazed athwart the gathering night, 
To mark the sea-gulls wheeling by. 

And longed to follow in their flight. 
One winter night, beside the hearth 

She sat and watched the smouldering fire, 
While now the tempests seemed to lull. 

And now the winds rose high and higher — 
Strange sounds are heard along the wall. 

Dim faces glimmer through the gloom — 
And still mysterious voices call, 

And shadows flit from room to room — 
Till, bending o'er the dying brands, 

She chanced a sudden gleam to see ; 
She turned the sparkling embers o'er, 

And lo ! she finds a golden key ! 
Lured on, as by an unseen hand. 

She roamed the castle o'er and o'er — 
Through many a darkling chamber sped. 

And many a dusky corridor ; 
And still, through unknown, winding ways 

She wanderetl on for many an hour. 
For gallery still to gallery leads. 

And tower succeeds to tower. 
Oft, wearied with the steep ascent, 

She lingered on her lonely way. 
And paused beside the pictured walls, 

* This is a joint production of Mrs, Wliitmau and her sis- 
ter. Miss Power, as before stated. 



Their countless wonders to survey. 
At length, upon a narrow stair 

That wound within a turret high. 
She saw a little low-browed door. 

And turned, her golden key to try : 
Slowly, beneath her trembling hand, 

The bolts recede, and, backward flung. 
With harsh recoil and sullen clang 

The door upon its hinges swung. 
There, in a Uttle moonlit room. 

She sees a weird and withered crone, 
Who sat and spun amid the gloom. 

And turned her wheel with drowsy drone. 
With mute amaze and wondering awe, 

A passing moment stood the maid, 
Then, entering at the narrow door. 

More near the mystic task surveyed. 
She saw her twine the flaxen fleece. 

She saw her draw the flaxen thread. 
She viewed the spindle's shining point, 

And, pleased, the novel task surveyed. 
A sudden longing seized her breast 

To twine the fleece, to turn the wheel ; 
She stretched her lily hand, and pierced 

Her finger with the shining steel ! 
Slowly her heavy eyelids close. 

She feels a drowsy torpor creep 
From limb to limb, till every sense 

Is locked in an enchanted sleep. 
A dreamless slumber, deep as night, 

In deathly trance her senses locked ; 
At once through all its massive vaults 

And gloomy towers the castle rocked: 
The beldame roused her from her lair. 

And raised on high a mournful wail — 
A shrilly scream that seemed to float 

A requiem on the dying gale. 
" A hundred years shall pass," she said, 

" Ere those blue eyes behold the morn, 
Ere these deserted halls and towers 

Shall echo to a bugle-horn. 
A hundred Norland winters pass. 

While drenching -rains and drifting snows 
Shall beat against the castle walls, 

Nor wake thee from thy long repose. 
A hundred times the golden grain 

Shall wave beneath the harvest moon. 
Twelve hundred moons shall was and wane 

Ere yet thine eyes behold the sun I" 
She ceased : but still the mystic rhyme 

The long-resounding aisles prolong, 
And all the castle's echoes chime 

In answering cadence to her song. 
She bore the maiden to her bower. 

An ancient chamber wide and low. 
Where golden sconces from the wall 

A faint and trembling lustre throw ; 
A silent chamber, far apart. 

Where strange and antique arras hung. 
That waved along the mouldering walls, 

And in the gusty night wind swung. 
She laid her on her ivory bed. 

And gently smoothed each snowy limb. 
Then drew the curtain's dusky fold 

To make the entering daylight dim. 



168 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



PART 11. 
And all around, on every side, 
Throughout the castle's precincts wide, 

In every bower and hall, 
All slept : the warder in the court, 
The figures on the arras wrought. 

The steed within his stall. 
No more the watchdog bayed the moon, 
The owlet ceased her boding tune, 

The raven on his tower, 
All hushed in slumber still and deep, 
Enthralled in an enchanted sleep. 

Await the appointed hour. 
A pathless forest, wild and wide, 
Engirt the castle's inland side, 

And stretclied for many a mile ; 
So thick its deep, impervious screen, 
The castle tovifers were dimly seen 

Above the mouldering pile. 
So high the ancient cedars sprung, 
So far aloft their branches flung. 

So close the covert grew. 
No foot its silence could invade, 
No eye could pierce its depths of shade, 

Or see the welkin through. 
Yet oft, as from some distant mound 
The traveller cast his eyes around, 

O'er vpold and woodland gray. 
He saw, athwart the glimmering light 
Of moonbeams, on a misty night, 

A castle far away. 

A hundred Norland winters passed, 

While drenching rains and drifting snows 
Beat loud against the castle walls, 

Nor broke the maiden's long repose. 
A hundred times on vale and hill 

The reapers bound the golden com — 
And now the ancient halls and towers 

Keecho to a bugle-horn ! 

A warrior from a distant land, 

With helm and hauberk, spear and brand. 

And high, untarnishtd crest, 
By visions of enchantment led. 
Hath vowed, before the morning's red, 

To break her charmed rest. 
From torrid plime beyond the main 
He comes the costly prize to gain, 

O'er deserts waste and wide. 
No dangers daunt, no toils can tire ; 
With throbbing heart and soul on fire 

He seeks his sleeping bride. 
He gains the old, enchanted wood. 
Where never mortal footsteps trod, 

He pierced its tangled gloom ; 
A eliillness loads the lurid air. 
Where baleful swamp-fires gleaca and glare. 

His pathway to illume. 
Well might the warrior's courage fail. 
Well might his lofty spirit quail, 

On that enchanted ground ; 
No open foeman meets him there, 
But, borne upon the murky air. 

Strange horror broods around ! 
At every turn his footsteps sank 



Mid tangled boughs and mosses dank. 

For long and wearj' hours — 
Till issuing from the dangerous wood. 
The castle full before him stood. 

With all its flanking towers ! 
The moon a paly lustre sheds ; 
Resolved, the grass-grown court he treads, 

The gloomy portal gained — 
He crossed the threshold's magic bound. 
He paced the hall, where all around 

A deathly silence reigned. 
No fears his venturous course could stay — 
Darkling he groped his dreary way — 

Up the wide staircase sprang. 
It echoed to his mailed heel ; 
With clang of arms and clash of steel ^ 

The silent chambers rang. 
He sees a glimmering taper gleam 
Far off, with faint and trembling beam, 

Athwart the midnight gloom : 
Then first he felt the touch of fear. 
As with slow footsteps drawing near. 

He gained the lighted room. 
And now the waning moon was low, 
The perfumed tapers faintly glow, 

And, by their dying gleam. 
He raised the curtain's dusky fold, 
And lo ! his charmed eyes behold 

The lady of his dream I 
As violets peep from wintry snows, 
Slowly her heavy lids unclose. 

And gently heaves her breast; 
But all unconscious was her gaze, 
Her eye with listless languor strays 

From brand to plumy crest ; 
A rising blush begins to dawn 
Like that which steals at early morn 

Across the eastern sky ; 
And slowly, as the morning broke, 
The maiden from her trance awoke 

Beneath his ardent eye ! 
As the first kindling sunbeams threw 
Their level light athwart the dew. 

And tipped the hills with flame. 
The silent forest-boughs were stirred 
With music, as from bee and bird 

A mingling murmur came. 
From out its depths of tangled gloom 
There came a breath of dewy bloom. 

And from the valleys dim 
A cloud of fragrant incense stole. 
As if each violet breathed its soul 

Into that floral hymn. 
Loud neighed the steed within his stall. 
The cock crowed on the castle wall. 

The warder wound his horn ; 
The linnet sang in leafy bower. 
The swallows, twittering from the tower, 

Salute the rosy morn. 
But fresher than the rosy mom. 
And blither than the bugle-horn. 

The maiden's heart doth prove. 
Who, as her beaming eyes awake. 
Beholds a double morning break — 

The dawn of light and love ! 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



169 



LINES WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER. 

Faheweil the forest shade, the twilight grove, 
The turfy path with fern and flowers inwove, 
Where through long summer days I wandered far, 
Till warned of evening by her " folding star." 
No more I linger by the fountain's play 
M'liere arching boughs shut out the sultry ray, 
Making at noontide hours a dewy gloom [bloom. 
O'er the moist marge where weeds and wild flowers 
Til! from the western sun a glancing flood 
Of arrowy radiance filled the twilight wood, 
Glinting athwart each leafy, verdant fold. 
And flecking all the turf with drops of gold. 

Sweet sang the wild bird on the waving bough 
Where cold November winds are wailing now ; 
The chirp of insects on the sunny lea, 
And the wild music of the wandering bee, 
Are silent all — closed is their vesper lay, 
Borne by the breeze of autumn far away : 
Yet still the withered heath I love to rove. 
The bare, brown meadow, and the leafless grove ; 
Still love to tread the bleak hill's rocky side. 
Where nodding asters wave in purple pride, 
Or from its summit listen to the flow 
Of the dark waters booming far below. 
Still through the tangUng, pathless copse I stray 
Where sere and rustling leaves obstruct the way. 
To find the last pale blossom of the year. 
That strangely blooms when all is dark and drear : 
The wild, witch hazel, fraught with mystic power 
To ban or bless, as sorcery rules the hour. 
Then, homeward wending thro' the dusky vale 
Where winding rills their evening damps exhale, 
Pause by the dark pool in whose sleeping wave 
Pale Dian loves her golden locks to lave 
In the hushed fountain's heart, serene and cold. 
Glassing her glorious image — as of old. 
When first she stole upon Endymion's rest. 
And his young dreams with heavenly beauty blest. 

And thou, " stern ruler of the inverted year," 
Cold, cheerless Winter, hath thy wild career 
No sweet, peculiar pleasures for the heart, 
That can ideal worth to rudest forms impart 1 
When, through thy long, dark nights, cold sleet and 
Patter and plash against the frosty pane, [rain 
Warm curtained from the storm, I love to lie 
Wakeful, and listening to the lullaby 
Of fitful winds, that, as they rise and fall. 
Send hollow murmurs through the echoing hall. 

Oft by the blazing hearth at eventide 
I love to mark the changing shadows glide 
In flickering motion o'er the umbered wall. 
Till Slumber's honey dew my senses thrall. 
Then, wliile in dreamy consciousness I lie 
'Twixt sleep and waking, fairy Fantasy 
Culls from the golden past a treasured store. 
And weaves a dream so sweet, Hope could not ask 
for more. 

In the cold splendor of a frosty night. 
When blazing stars bum with intenser Ught 
Through the blue vault of heaven ; when cold and 

clear 
The air through which yon tall cliffs rise severe ; 
Or when the shrouded earth in solenm trance 



Sleeps 'neath the wan moon's melancholy glance, 
I love to mark earth's sister planets rise. 
And in pale beauty tread the midnight skies. 
Where, like lone pilgrims, constant as the night. 
They fill their dark urns from the fount of light. 

I love the BoreaUs' flames that fly 
Fitful and wild athwart the northern sky — 
The storied constellation, like a page 
Fraught with the wonders of a former age. 
Where monsters grim, gorgons, and hydras, rise, 
And " gods and heroes blaze along the skies." 

Thus Nature's music, various as the hour. 
Solemn or sweet, hath ever mystic power 
Still to preserve the unperverted heart 
Awake to love and beauty — to impart 
Treasures of thought and feeling pure and deep, 
That aid the doubting soul its heavenward course 
to keep. 



A STILL DAY IN AUTUMN. 

I LOVE to wander through the woodlands hoary 
In the soft light of an autumnal day. 

When Summer gathers up her robes of glory. 
And like a dream of beauty glides away. 

How through each loved, familiar path she lingers. 
Serenely smiling through the golden mist. 

Tinting the wild gi'ape with her dewy fingers 
Till the cool emerald turns to amethyst : 

Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, shining 
To light the gloom of Autumn's mouldering halls 

With hoary plumes the clematis entwining 
Where o'er the rock her withered garland falls. 

Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning 

Beneath soft clouds along the horizon rolled. 
Till the slant sunbeams through their fringes raining 

Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold. 
The moist winds breathe of crisped leaves andflowers 

In the damp hollows of the woodland sown, 
Mingling the fi'cshness of autumnal showers 

With spicy airs from cedarn alleys blown. 

Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow. 
Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground. 

With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow 
The gentian nods in dewy slumbers bound. 

Upon those soft, fringed lids the bee sits brooding, 
Like a fond lover loath to say farewell. 

Or with shut wings, through silken folds intruding. 
Creeps near her heart his drowsy tale to tell. 

The Uttle birds upon the hillside lonely 
Flit noiselessly along fi'om from spray to spray, 

Silent as a sweet wandering thought that only 
Shows its bright wings and softly glides away. 

The scentless flowers in the warm sunlight dream- 
Forget to breathe their fullness of delight, [ing. 

And through the tranced woods soft airs are stream- 
Still as the dewfall of the summer night. [ing, 

So, in my heart a sweet, unwonted feeling. 
Stirs like the wind in ocean's hollow shell — 

Through all its secret chambers sadly stealing. 
Yet finds no word its mystic charm to tell. 



I 



170 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



"A GREEN AND SILENT SPOT AMONG 
THE HILLS." 

Is the soft gloom of summer's balmy eve, 
When from the lingering glances of the sun 
The sad Eai'th turns away her blushing cheek, 
Mantling its glow in twilight's shadowy veil. 
Oft mid the falling dews I love to stray 
Onward and onward through the pleasant fields. 
Far up the lihed borders of the stream. 
To this " green, silent spot among the hills," 
Endeared by thronging memories of the past. 

Oft have I lingered on this rustic bridge 
To view the limpid waters winding on 
Under dim vaulted woods, whose woven boughs 
Of beech, and maple, and broad sycamore, 
Throw their soft, moving shadows o'er the wave. 
While blossomed vines, dropped to the water's brim, 
Hang idly swaying in the summer wind. 

The birds that wanderthrough the twihghtheaven 
Are mirrored far beneath me, and young leaves 
That ti'emble on the birch tree's silver boughs, 
In the cool wave reflected, gleam below 
Like twinklmg stars athwart the verdant gloom. 

A sound of rippling waters rises svpeet 
Amid the silence ; and the western breeze. 
Sighing through sedges and low meadow blooms, 
Comes waftinggentle thoughts from Memory's land. 
And wakes the long hushed music of the heart. 

Oft dewy Spring hath brimmed the brook with 
showers ; 
Oft hath the long, bright Summer fringed its banks 
With breathing blossoms ; and the Autumn sun 
Shed mellow hues o'er all its wooded shores. 
Since first I trod these paths in youth's sweet prime. 
With loved ones whom Time's desolating wave 
Hath wafted now for ever from my side. 
The living stream still lingers on its way 
In idle dalliance with the dew lipped flowers 
That toss their pretty heads at its caress, 
Or trembling listen to its silver voice ; 
While through yon rifted boughs the evening star 
Is seen above the hilltop, beautiful 
As when on many a balmy summer night. 
Lapped in sweet dreams, in " holy passion hushed," 
I saw its ray slant through the trembling pines. 

Long years haY_e passed : and by the unchanging 
Bereft and sorrow taught, alone I stand, [stream. 
Listening the hollow music of the wind. 
Alone — alone ! the stars are far away. 
And frequent clouds shut out the summer heaven. 
But still the calm Earth keeps her constant course. 
And whispershopc through all her breathingflowers. 

Not all in vain the vision of our youth — 
The apocalypse of beauty and of love — 
The staglike heart of hope : life's mystic dream 
The soul shall yet interpret — to our prayer 
The Isis veil be lifted — though we pine 
E'en mid the ungathered roses of our youth. 
Pierced with sti'ange pangs and longings infinite, 
As if earth's fairest flowers served but to wake 
Sad, haunthig memories of our Eden home, 
Not all in vain. Meantime, in patient trust 
Rest we on Nature's bosom — from her eye 
Serene and still, drinking in faith and love, 



To her calm pulse attempering the heart 
That throbs too wildly for ideal bliss. 

Oh, gentle mother ! heal me, for I faint 
Upon life's arid pathway, and " my feet 
On the dark mountains stumble." Near thy heart 
In childlike trust, close nesthng, let me lie. 
And let thy breath fall cool upon my cheek 
As in those unworn ages, ere pale 'Thought 
Forestalled life's patient harvest. Give me strength 
In generous abandonment of heart 
To follow wheresoe'er o'er the world's waste 
The cloudy pillar moveth, till at last 
It guide to pleasant vales and pastures green 
By the still waters of eternal life. 



THE WAKING OE THE HEART. 

" pleasure sita in the flower cupg, and breatbea itself out in ftagnince." 
Jiahsl. 

As the fabled stone into music woke 
When the morning sun o'er the marble broke, 
So wakes the heart from its stem repose ; 
As o'er brow and bosom the spring wind blows, 
So it stirs and trembles as each low sigh 
Of the breezy south comes murmuring by — 
Murmuring by like a voice of love. 
Wooing us forth amid flowers to rove, 
Breatliing of meadow-paths tliickly sown 
With pearls from the blossoming fruit trees blown, 
And of banks that slope to the southern sky 
Where languid violets love to he. 

No foliage droops o'er the woodpath now, 
No dark vines swinging from bough to bough ; 
But a trembling shadow of silvery green 
FaUs through the young leaf's tender screen. 
Like the hue that borders the snowdi'op's bell. 
Or lines the lid of an Indian sheU; 
And a fairy light, like the firefly's glow, 
Flickers and fades on the grass below. 

There the pale Anemone lifts her eye 
To look at the clouds as they wander by, 
Or lurks in the shade of a palmy fern 
To gather fresh dews in her waxen urn. [breast, 
Where the moss lies thick on the brown earth's 
The shy little Mayflower weaves her nest, 
But the south wind sighs o'er the fragrant loam. 
And betrays the path to her woodland home. 

Already the green budding birchen spray 
Winnows the balm from the breath of May, 
And the aspen thrills to a low, sweet tone 
From the reedy bugle of Faunus blown. 

In the tangled coppice the dwarf oak weaves 
Her fringelike blossoms and crimson leaves ; 
The sallows their delicate buds unfold 
Into downy feathers bedropped "with gold ; 
While, thick as the stars in the midnight sky, 
In the dark, wet meadows the cowslips lie. 

A love tint flushes the wind-flower's cheek. 
Rich melodies gush from the violet's beak. 
On the rifts of the rock the vrild columbines grow, 
Their heavy honey-cups bending low — 
As a heart which vague, sweet thoughts oppress. 
Droops 'neath its burden of happiness. [weUs, 

There the waters drip from their moss rimmed 
With a sound like the tinkling of silver bells. 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



171 



Or fall with a mellow and flutelike flow 
Through the channels and clefts of the rock below. 

Soft music gushes in every tone, 
And perfume in every breeze is blown ; 
The flower in fragrance, the bird in song, 
The ghttering wave as it glides along — 
All breathe the incense of boundless bliss, 
The eloquent music of happiness. 

And the soul as it sheds o'er the sunbright hour 
The untold wealth of its mystic dower. 
Linked to all nature by chords of love. 
Lifted by faith to bright worlds above — 
How, with the passion of beauty fraught. 
Shall it utter its burden of blissful thought ! 
Yet sad would the springtime of nature seem 
To the soul that wanders mid life's dark dream, 
Its glory a meteor that sweeps the sky, 
A blossom that floats on the storm-wind by, 
If it woke no thought of that starry clime 
That lies on the desolate shores of Time, 
If it nurtured no delicate flowers to blow 
On the hills where the pahn and the amaranth grow. 



A DAY OF THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

" Yet one more srnile, departing distant sun 
Ere o'er tlie fiozen eartli the loud winds run 
And snows are silted o'er the meadows bare."— Brycnt. 

A D.4Y of golden beauty ! — Through the night 
The hoar-frost gathered o'er each leaf and spray 
Wea^g its filmy network, thin and bright 
And shimmering like silver in the ray 
Of the soft, sunny morning — turf and tree 
Pranked in its delicate embroidery. 
And every withered stump and mossy stone, 
With gems encrusted and with seed-pearl sown ; 
While in the hedge the frosted berries glow, 
The scarlet holly and the purple sloe. 
And all is gorgeous, fairy-Uke and frail. 
As the famed gardens of the Arabian tale. 

How soft and still the varied landscape Ues, 
Calmly outspread beneath the smiling skies, 
As if the earth in prodigal array 
Of gems and broidered robes kept holyday ; 
Her harvest yielded and her work all done 
Basking in beauty 'neath the autumn sun ! 

Yet once more through the soft and balmy day 
Up the brown hill-side, o'er the sunny brae. 
Far let us rove — or, through lone solitudes [woods," 
Where " autumn's smile beams through the yellow 
Fondly refracing each sweet, summer haunt 
And sylvan pathway — where the sunbeams slant 
Through yonder copse, tinging the saffron stars 
Of the witch-hazel with their golden bars, 
Or, lingering down this dim and shadowy lane 
Where still the damp sod wears an emerald stain. 
Though ripe brown nuts hang clustering in the 
And the rude barberry o'er yon rocky ledge [hedge. 
Droops with its pendent corals. When the showers 
Of April clothed this winding path with flowers, 
Here oft we sought the violet, as it lay 
Buried in beds of moss and lichens gray ; 
And still the aster greets us as we pass 



With her faint smile — among the withered grass 
Beside the way, lingering as loath of heart. 
Like me, from these sweet solitudes to part. 

Now seek we the dank borders of the stream 
Where the tall fern-tufts shed a ruby gleam 
Over the water from their crimsoned plumes. 
And clustering near the modest gentian blooms 
Lonely around — hallowed by sweetest song. 
The last and loveUest of the floral throng. 
Yet here we may not linger, for behold. 
Where the stream widens, hke a sea of gold 
Outspreading far before us — all around 
Steep wooded heights and sloping uplands bound 
The sheltered scene — along the distant shore 
Through colored woods the glinting sunbeams pour. 
Touching their fohage with a thousand shades 
And hues of beauty, as the red light fades 
Upon the hill-side 'neath yon floating shroud. 
Or, from the silvery edges of the cloud 
Pours down a brighter gleam. Gray willows lave 
Their pendent branches in the crystal wave, 
And slender birch trees o'er its banks incline. 
Whose tall, slight stems across the water sMne 
Like shafts of silver — there the tawny elm, 
The fairest subject of the sylvan realm. 
The tufted pine tree and the cedar dark. 
And the young chestnut, its smooth polished bark 
Gleaming like porphyry in the yellow hght. 
The dark brown oak and the rich maple dight 
In robes of scarlet, all are standing there 
So still, so calm in the soft misty air, 
That not a leaf is stirring — nor a sound 
Startles the deep repose that broods around. 
Save when the robin's melancholy song 
Is heard from yonder coppice, and along 
The sunny side of that low, moss-grown wall 
That skirts our path, the cricket's chii-ping call. 
Or, the fond murmur of the drowsy bee 
O'er some lone flow'ret on the sunny lea, 
And, heard at intervals, a pattering sound 
Of ripened acorns rustling to the ground [all, 
Through the crisp, withered leaves. — How lonely 
How calmly beautiful ! Long shadows fall 
More darkly o'er the wave as day declines, 
Yet from the west a deeper glory shines, 
While every crested hill and rocky height 
Each moment varies in the kindling light 
To some new form of beauty — changing through 
All shades and colors of the rainbow's hue, 
" The last still loveliest" till the gorgeous day 
Melts in a flood of golden light away. 
And all is o'er. Before to-morrow's sun 
Cold winds may rise and shrouding shadows dun 
Obscure the scene — yet shall these fading hues 
And fleeting forms their loveliness transfuse 
Into the mind — and memoiy shall burn 
The painting in on her enamelled urn 
In undcoaying colors. When the blast 
Rages around and snows are gathering fast. 
When musing sadly by the twilight hearth 
Or lonely wandering through life's crowded path 
Its quiet beauty rising through the gloom 
Shall sooth the languid spirits and illume 
The drooping fancy — winning back the soul [frol. 
To cheerful thoughts through nature's sweet con- 



172 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



THE LOST CHURCH. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

In yonder dim and pathless wood 

Strange sounds are heard at twilight hour, 
And peals of solemn music swell 

As from some minster's lofty tower. 
From age to age those sounds are heard, 

Borne on the breeze at twilight hour ; 
From age to age no foot hath found 

A pathway to the minster's tower ! 

Late, wandering in that ancient wood. 
As onward through the gloom I trod, 

From all the woes and wrongs of earth 

, My soul ascended to its God. 

When lo, in the hushed wilderness 
I heard, far off, that solemn bell : 

Still heavenward as my spirit soared. 
Wilder and sweeter rang the knell. 

While thus in holy musings rapt. 

My mind from outward sense withdrawn. 
Some power had caught me from the earth, 

And far into the heavens upborne — 
Methought a hundred years had passed 

In mystic visions as I lay, 
When suddenly the parting clouds 

Seemed opening wide and far away. 

No midday sun its glory shed. 

The stars were shrouded from my sight. 
And lo ! majestic o'er my head 

A minster shone in solemn light. 
High through the lurid heavens it seemed 

Aloft on cloudy wings to rise. 
Till all its pointed turrets gleamed 

Far flaming through the vaulted skies ! 
The bell with full resounding peal 

Rang booming through the rocking tower : 
No hand had stirred its iron tongue, 

Slow swaying to the storm-wind's power. 
My bosom beating like a bark 

Dashed by the surging ocean's foam, 
I trod with faltering, fearful joy 

The mazes of the mighty dome. 

A soft light through the oriel streamed 

Like summer moonlight's golden gloom, 
Far through the dusky arches gleamed. 

And filled with glory all the room. 
Pale sculptures of the sainted dead 

Seemed waking from their icy thrall. 
And many a glory circled head 

Smiled sadly from the storied wall. 
Low at the altar's foot I knelt, 

Transfixed with awe, and dumb with dread, 
For blazoned on the vaulted roof 

Were heaven's fiercest glories spread. 
Yet when I raised my eyes once more. 

The vaulted roof itself was gone ; 
Wide open was heaven's lofty door, 

And every cloudy veil withdrawn ! 
What visions burst upon my soul, 

What joys unutterable there 
In waves on waves for ever roll 

Like music through the pulseless air — 



These never mortal tongue may tell : 

Let him who fain would prove their power. 

Pause when he hears that solemn knell 
Float on the breeze at twilight hour. 



THE PAST. 

" So near— yet oh, how far!" — Goetfie'c Helena. 

Thick darkness broodeth o'er the world : 

The raven pinions of the Night 
Close on her silent bosom furled. 

Reflect no gleam of orient light. 
E'en the wild norland fii'es, that mocked 

The faint bloom of the eastern sky. 
Now leave me, "in close darloiess locked. 

To night's weird realm of fantasy. 
Borne from pale shadow-lands remote, 

A Morphean music, wildly sweet, 
Seems on the starless gloom to float 

Like the white pinioned Paraclete. 
Softly into my dream it flows. 

Then faints into the silence drear, 
While from the hollow dark outgrows 

The phantom Past, pale gliding near. 
The visioned Past — so strangely fair ! 

So veiled in shadowy, soft regrets. 
So steeped in sadness, like the air 

That lingers when the daystai sets ! 
Ah ! could I fold it to my heart. 

On its cold lip my kisses press, 
This waste of aching life impart 

To win it back from nothingness ! 
I loathe the purple light of day. 

And shun the morning's golden star, 
Beside that shadowy form to stray 

For ever near, yet oh how far ! 
Thin as a cloud of summer even, 

All beauty from my gaze it bars ; 
Shuts out the silver cope of heaven, 

And glooms athwart the dying stars. 
Cold, sad, and spectral, by my side 

It breathes of love's ethereal bloom — 
Of bridal memories long aflied 

To the dread silence of the tomb. 
Sweet cloistered memories, that the heart 

Shuts close within its chalice cold, 
Faint perfumes that no more dispart 

From the bruised lily's floral fold. 
" My soul is weary of her life ;" 

My heart sinks with a slow despair ; 
The solemn, starlit hours are rife 

With fantasy — the noontide glare. 
And the cool morning, " fancy free," 

Are false with shadows, for the day 
Brings no blithe sense of verity, 

Nor wins from twilight thoughts away. 
Oh, bathe me in the Lethean stream. 

And feed me on the lotus flowers ; 
Shut out this false, bewildering gleam. 

The dreamlight of departed hours ! 
The Future can no charm confer. 

My heart's deep solitudes to break — 
No angel's foot again shall stir 

The waters of that silent lake. 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



173 



I wander in pale dreams away, 

And shun the morning's golden star, 
To follow stUl that failing ray 

For ever near, yet oh how far ! 
Then bathe me in the Lethean stream, 

And feed me on the lotus flowers ; 
Nor leave one late and lingering beam, 

One memory of departed hours ! 



A SEPTEMBER EVENING ON THE BANKS 
OF THE MOSHASSUCK. 

*' Now to the sessions of sweet, silent thought, 
1 summon up remembrance of things past." 

S/ta^pere's Sonnets. 

Again September's golden day 

Serenely still, intensely bright, 
Fades on the umbered hills away 

And melts into the coming night. 
Again Moshassuck's silver tiiJe 
Reflects each green herb on its side, 
Each tasselled wreath and tangling vine. 
Whose tendrils o'er its margin twine. 

And standing on its velvet shore 

Where yesternight with thee I stood, 
I trace its devious course once more 

Far winding on through vale and wood. 
Now glimmering through yon golden mist, 
By the last glinting sunbeams kissed. 
Now lost where lengthening shadows fall 
From hazel copse and moss-fringed wall. 

Near where yon rocks the stream inum 

The lonely gentian blossoms still, 
Still wave the star-flower and the fern 

O'er the soft outline of the liill ; 
Wliile far aloft where pine trees throw 
Their shade athwart the sunset glow, 
Thin vapors cloud the illumined air 
And parting daylight lingers there. 

But ah, no longer thou art near 

This varied loveliness to see. 
And I, though fondly lingering here 

To-night can only think on thee — • 
The flowers thy gentle hand caressed 
Still lie unwithered on my breast. 
And still thy footsteps print the shore 
Where thou and I may rove no more. 

Again I hear the murmuring fall 
Of water from some distant dell. 

The beetle's hum, the cricket's call, 
And, far away, that evening bell — 

Again, again those sounds I hear. 

But oh, how desolate and drear 

They seem to-night — how like a knell 

The music of that evening bell. 

Again the new moon in the west, 
Scarce seen upon yon golden sky. 

Hangs o'er the mountain's purple crest 
With one pale planet trembling nigh, 

And beautiful her pearly light 

As when we blessed its beams last night. 

But thou art on the far blue sea, 

And I can only think on thee. 



SUMMER'S INVITATION TO THE ORPHAN 

The summer skies are darkly blue. 

The days are still and bright. 
And Evening trails her robes of gold 

Through the dim halls of night. 
Then, when the little orphan wakes, 

A low voice whispers, " Come, 
And all day wander at thy will 

Beneath my azure dome. 
" Beneath my vaulted azure dome. 

Through all my flowery lands. 
No higher than the lowly thatch 

The royal palace stands. 
" I '11 fill thy little longing arms 

■With fruits and wilding flowers. 
And tell thee tales of fairy land 

In the long twilight hours." 
The orphan hears that wooing voice : 

A while he softly broods — 
Then hastens down the sunny slopes 

Into the twilight woods. 
There all things whisper pleasure : . 

The tree has fruits, the grass has flowers. 
And the little birds are singing 

In the dim and leafy bowers. 
The brook stays him at the crossing 

In its waters cool and sweet. 
And the pebbles leap around him 

And frolic at his feet. 
At night no cruel hostess 

Receives him with a frown ; 
He sleeps where all the quiet stars 

Are calmly looldng down. 
The Moon comes gliding through the trees. 

And softly stoops to spread 
Her dainty silver kirtle 

Upon his grassy bed. 
The drowsy night wind murmuring 

Its quaint old tunes the while, 
Till Morning wakes him with a song. 

And greets him with a smile. 



STANZAS WITH A BRIDAL RING. 

The young Moon hides her vh'gin heart 

Within a ring of gold ; 
So doth this little circlet all 

My bosom's love infold, 
And tell the tale that from my lips 

Seems ever half untold. 
Like the rich legend of the east 

That never finds a close. 
But winds in linked sweetness on 

And lengthens as it goes. 
Or like this little cycle still 

Returneth whence it flows. 
And still as in the elfin ring 

Where fitiries dance by night. 
Shall the green places of the heart 

Be kept for ever bright. 
And hope within this magic round 

Still blossom in delight. 



174 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



SHE BLOOMS NO MORE. 

" oh primavera, gioventu dell' anno, 
Bella mad re di liori 
Tu torni ben, ma teco 
Non tornani i sereni 
E forlunati di delle mi gioge."— GunJ-iJti. 

I DREAD to see the summer sun 

Come glowing up the sky, 
And early pansies, one by one, 

Opening the violet eye. 

The choral melody of June, 

The perfumed breath of heaven, 

The dewy mom, the radiant noon. 
The lingering light of even — 

These, which so charmed my careless heart 

In happy days gone by, 
A deeper sadness now impart 

To Memory's thoughtful eye. 

They speak of one who sleeps in death, 

Her race untimely o'er — 
Who ne'er shall taste Spring's honeyed breath, 

Nor see her glories more : 

Of one who shared with me in youth 

Life's sunshine and its flowers, 
And kept unchanged her bosom's truth 

Through all its darker hours. 

She faded when the leaves were sere, 
And wailed the autumnal blast ; 

With all the glories of the year, 
From earth her spirit passed. 

Again the fair azalia bows 

Beneath its snowy crest ; 
In yonder hedge the hawthorn blows. 

The robin builds her nest ; 

The tulips lift their proud tiars, 

The lilac waves her plumes. 
And peeping through my lattice-bars 

The rose-acacia blooms. 

Breathe but one word, ye starry flowers! 

One little word to tell, 
If in that far off shadow-land 

Love and Remembrance dwell. 

For she can,bloom on earth no more. 

Whose early doom I mourn ; 
Nor Spring nor Summer can restore 

Our flower, untimely shorn. 

Now dim as folded violets 

Her eyes of dewy light, 
And her rosy lips have moumfiilly 

Breathed out their last good-night ! 

She ne'er shall hear again the song 

Of merry birds in spring, 
Nor roam the flowery braes among 

In the year's young blossoming ; 

Nor longer in the lingering light 

Of summer's eve shall we. 
Locked hand in hand, together sit 

Beneath the greenwood tree. 

'Tis therefore that I dread to see 
The glowing summer sun, 



And balmy blossoms on the tree 
Unfolding one by one. 

They speak of things that once have been, 

But never more can be : 
And earth all decked in smiles again 

Is still a waste to me. 



THE MAIDEN'S DREAM. 

" TLrice hallowed be that beautiful dawn of love when tbe maiden's 
cheek still bluflhea at the conscious sweetness of her own innocent 
thoughts. " — Jean Paul. 

Ask not if she loves, but look 

In the blue depths of her eye, 
Where the maiden's spirit seems 

Tranced in happy dreams to lie. 

All the blisses of her dream. 

All she may not, must not speak, 

Read them in her clouded eye. 

Read them on her conscious cheek. 

See that cheek of virgin snow 

Damasked with love's rosy bloom ; 

Mark the lambent thoughts that glow 
Mid her blue eye's tender gloom. 

As if in a cool, deep well. 

Veiled by shadows of the night, 

Slanting through, a starbeam fell. 
Filling all its depths with light. 

Something mournful and profound 

Saddens all her beauty now. 
Weds her dark eye to the gromid — 

FUng's a shadow o'er her brow. 

Hath her love-illumined soul 

Raised the veil of coming years — 

Read upon hfe's mj'stic scroll 
Its doom of agony and tears? 

Tears of tender sadness fall 

From her soft and lovelit eye. 
As the night dews heavily 

Fall from summer's cloudless sky. 

Still she sitteth coyly drooping 

Her white lids in virgin pride, 
Like a languid lily stooping 

Low her folded blooms to liide. 

Starting now in soft surprise 

From the tangled web of thought, 

Lo, her heart a captive lies, 

In its own sweet fancies caught 

Ah ! bethink thee, maiden yet. 
Ere to passion's doom betrayed ; 

Hearts where Love his seal has set, 
Sorrow's fiercest pangs invade. 

Let that young heart slumber still, 

Like a bird within its nest ; 
Life can ne'er its dreams fulfil — 

Love but yield thee long unrest. 

Ah ! in vain the dovelet fries 

To break the web of tender thought — 

The little heart a captive lies. 
In its own sweet fancies caught 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 175 


ROGER WILLIAMS. 


The fire-winged courser's breath has swept 


WRITTEN FOR AN ANNIVERSARY OF THE RHODE- 


Across its cooling tide : 


ISLAND EISTORICAL SOCIETY. 


Lo ! where he plants his iron heel. 


Now, while the echoing cannon's roar 


How fast the wave has dried ! 


Roclis our far frontal towers, 


Unlike the fabled Pegasus, 


And bugle blast and trumpet's blare 


Whose proud hoof, where he trode 


Float o'er the " Land of Flowers;" 


Earth's flinty bosom, oped a fount 


■While our bold eagle spreads his wing, 


Whence living waters flowed. 


No more in lofty pride, 


Or, turn we to the green hill's side : 


But sorrowing sinks, as if from Heaven 


There, with the spring-time showers. 


The ensanguined field to hide : 


The white thorn, o'er a nameless grave. 


Turn we from War's bewildering blaze, 


Rains its pale, silver flowers. 


And Conquest's choral song. 


Yet Memory lingers with the past. 


To the still voice of other days. 


Nor vainly seeks to trace 


Long heard — forgotten long. 


His footprints on a rock, whence time 


Listen to his rich words, intoned 


Nor tempests can efface ; 


To " songs of lofty cheer," 


Whereon he planted, fast and deep. 


Who, in the " howling wilderness," 


The roof tree of a home 


When only God could hear. 


Wide as the wings of Love may sweep. 


Breathed not of exile, nor of wrong. 


Free as her thoughts may roam ; 


. Through the long winter nights, 


Where through all time the saiDts may dwell, 


But uttered, in exulting song. 


And from pure fountains draw 


The soul's unchartered rights. 


That peace which passeth human thought. 


Who opened wide the guarded doors 


In liberty and law. 


Where Conscience reigned alone. 


When heavenward, up the silver stair 


And bade the nations own her laws, 


Of silence drawn, we tread 


And tremble round her throne ; 


The visioned mount that looks beyond 


Who sought the oracles of God 


The valley of the dead — > 


Within her veiled shrine. 


Oh, may we gather to our hearts 


Nor asked the monarch nor the priest 


The deeds our fathers wrought. 


Her sacred laws to sign. 


And feed the perfamed lamp of Love 


The brave, high heart, that would not yield 


In the cool air of Thought. 


Its liberty of thought. 


While Hope shall on her anchor lean, 


Far o'er the melancholy main. 


May Memory fondly turn. 


Through bitter trials brought ; 


To wreathe the amaranth and the palm 


But, to a double exile doomed. 


Aromid their funeral urn ! 


By Faith's pure guidance led 
Through the dark labyrinth of life, 






Held fast her golden thread. 


HOW SOFTLY COMES THE SUMMER 




WIND. 


Listen ! — the music of his dream 




Perchance may linger still 


"And henceforth all that once was fair, 
Grew fairer." 


In the old familiar places 
Beneath the emerald hill. 




How softly comes the summer wind 


The wavewom rock still breasts the storm 


At evening, o'er the hill — 


On Seekonk's lonely side. 
Where the dusk natives hailed the bark 


For ever murmuring of thee 
When busy crowds are still ; 


That bore their gentle guide. 


The wayside flowers seem to guess 
And whisper of my happiness. 


The spring that gushed, amid the wild, 
In music on his ear, 


While, in the dusk and dewy hours. 


Still pours its waters .undefiled. 


The silent stars above 


The fainting heart to cheer. 


Seem leaning from their airy towers 


But the fair cove, that slept so calm 

Beneath o'ershadowing hills. 
And bore the pilgrim's evening psalm 


To gaze on me in love ; 
And clouds of silver wander by. 


Like missioned doves athwart the sky — ■ 


Far up its flowery rills — 


Till Dian lulls the throbbing stars 


The tide that parted to receive 
The stranger's light canoe, 


Into elysian dreams. 


And, rippUng through my lattice-bars, 


As if an angel's balmy wing 


A brooding glory streams 


Had swept its waters blue — 


Around me, like the golden shower 


When, to the healing of its wave, 


That rained through Danae's guarded tower. 


We come in pensive thought, 


A low, bewildering melody 


Through all its pleasant borders 


Is murmuring in my ear — 


A dreary change is wrought ! 


Tones such as in the twilight wood 



\ 



176 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



The aspen thrills to hear, 
When Faunus slumbers on the hill, 
And all the tranced boughs are still. 

The jasmine twines her snowy stars 

Into a fairer wreath ; 
The lily, through my lattice-bars, 

Exhales a sweeter breath ; 
And, gazing on Night's starry cope, 
I dwell with " Beauty, which is Hope.' 



A SONG OF SPRING. 

In" April's dim and showery nights, 
When music melts along the air. 

And Memory wakens at the kiss 

Of wandering perfumes, faint and rare — 

Sweet springtime perfiimes, such as won 
Proserpina from realms of gloom 

To bathe her bright locks in the sun. 
Or bind them with the pansy's bloom , 

When light winds rift the fragrant bowers 
Where orchards shed their floral wreath. 

Strewing the turf with starry flowers. 
And dropping pearls at every breath ; 

When all night long the boughs are stirred 
With fitful warblings from the nest. 

And the heart flutters like a bird 
With its sweet, passionate unrest — 

Oh ! then, beloved, I think on thee, 
And on that life, so strangely fair. 

Ere yet one cloud of memory 

Had gathered in hope's golden air. 

I think on thee and thy lone grave 
On the green hillside far away ; 

I see the wilding flowers that wave 
Around thee as the night winds sway ; 

And still, though only clouds remain 
On hfe's horizon, cold and drear. 

The dream of youth returns again 
With the sweet promise of the year. 

I linger till night's waning stars 

Have ceased to tremble thi'ough the gloom, 
Till through the orient's cloudy bars 

I see the rose of morning bloom ! 

All flushed and radiant with delight. 
It opens through earth's stormy skies, 

Divinely beautiful and bright . 
As on the hills of paradise. 

Lo ! like a dewdrop on its breast 
The morning star of youth and love. 

Melting within the rosy east, 
Exhales to azure depths above. 

My spirit, soaring Uke a lark. 
Would follow on its airy flight, 

And, like yon little diamond spark. 
Dissolve into the realms of light. 

Sweet-missioned star ! thy silver beams 

Foretell a fairer life to come, 
And through the golden gate of dreams 

Allure the wandering spurit home. 



■] DAVID. 

SUGGESTED BY A STATUE.* 

At, this is he — the bold and gentle boy, 

That in lone pastures by the mountain's side 
Guarded his fold, and through the midnight sky 

Saw on the blast the God of battles ride ; 
Beheld his bannered armies on the height, 
Andheard their clarion somid through all thestormy 

night. 
The valiant boy that o'er the twilight wold 

Tracked the dark Hon and ensanguined bear; 
Following their bloody footsteps from the fold 

Far down the gorges to their lonely lair — 
This the stout heart, that from the hon's jaw 
Back o'er the shuddering waste the bleeding victim 

bore. 
Though his fair locks lie all unshorn and bare 

To the bold toying of the mountain wind, 
A conscious glory haunts the o'ershadowing air. 

And waits with glittering coil his brows to bind, 
While his proud temples bend superbly down. 
As if they felt e'en now the burden of a crown. 

Though a stern sorrow slumbers in his eyes, 

As if his prophet glance foresaw the day 
When the dark waters o'er his soul should rise. 

And friends and lovers wander far away — 
Yet the graced impress of that floral mouth 
Breathes of love's golden dream and the voluptuous 

south. 
Peerless in beauty as the prophet star, 

That in the dewy trances of the dawn 
Floats o'er the solitary hills afar, 

And brings sweet tidings of the lingering mom ; 
Or weary at the day-god's loitering wane. 
Strikes on the harp of hght a soft prelusive strain. 

So his wild harp with psaltery and shawm 
Awoke the nations in thick darkness furled. 

While mystic v/inds from Gilead's groves of balm 
Wafted its sweet hosannas through the world — 

So when the Dayspring from on high he sang. 

With joy the ancient hills and lonely valleys rang. 

Ay, this is he — the minstrel, prophet, king, 
Before whose arm princes and warriors sank; 

Who dwelt beneath Jehovah's mighty wing. 
And fi'om the " river of his pleasures" drank; 

Or through the rent pavilions of the storm 

Beheld the cloud of fire that veiled his awful form. 

And now he stands as when in Elah's vale. 
Where warriors set the battle in array, 

He met the Titan in his ponderous mail, 

Whose haughty challenge many a summer's day 

Rang through the border hills, while all the host 

Of faithless Israel heard and ti-embled at his boast. 

Till the slight stripUng from the mountain fold 
Stood, all unarmed, amid thefr sounding shields, 

And in his youth's first bloom, devoutly bold. 
Dared the grim champion of a thousand fields : 

So stands he now, as in Jehovah's might 

Glorying, he met the foe and won the immortal fight. 



* This fine statue, esecuted by Tlioraas F. Hoppiu, of 
Providence, R. I., represents the young cliampiou of Is. 
rael as he stands prepared to attaclt the Phiiistine. 



ELIZABETH O A KE S-SMITH. 



This accomplished and popular author was 
bom in a pleasant country town about twelve 
miles from the city of Portland, in Maine. 
Descended on her father's side from Thomas 
Prince, one of the early Puritan governors of 
the Plymouth colony, and claiming through 
the Oakeses, on her mother's side, the same 
early identification with the first European 
planters of our soil, Mrs. Oakes-Smith may 
readily be supposed to have that characteris- 
tic which is so rarely found among us, Amer- 
icanism ; and her writings in their depart- 
ment may be regarded as the genuine expres- 
sion of an American mind. 

At the early age of sixteen. Miss Prince 
was married to Mr. Seba Smith, at that time 
editor of the leading political journal of his 
native state, and since then well known to 
his countrymen as the original " Jack Down- 
ing," whose great popularity has been attest- 
ed by a score of imitators. The embarrassed 
afiairs of Mr. Smith (who, himself a poet, 
partook with a poet's sanguineness of tem- 
per in that noted attempt to settle the wild 
lands of Maine, which proved so disastrous a 
speculation to some of the wealthiest families 
of the state) first impelled Mrs. Oakes-Smith 
to take up her pen to aid in the support of 
her children. She had before t.hat period, 
indeed, given utterance to her poetic sensi- 
bilities in several anonymous pieces, which 
are still much admired. But a shrinking and 
sensitive modesty forbade her appearing as 
an author ; and though, in her altered cir- 
cumstances, when she found that her talents 
might be made available, she did not hesitate, 
like a true woman, to sacrifice feeling to duty, 
yet some of her most beautiful prose writings 
still continue to appear under nommes des 
plumes, with which her truly feminine spirit 
avoids identification. 

Seeking expression, yet shrinking from no- 
toriety ; and with a full share of that respect 
for a just fame and appreciation which be- 
longs to every high-toned mind, yet oppressed 
by its shadow when circumstance is the im- 
pelling motive of publication, the writings of 

12 



Mrs. Oakes-Smith might well be supposed to 
betray great inequality ; still in her many con- 
tributions to the magazines, it is remarkable 
how few of her pieces display the usual care- 
lessness and haste of magazine articles. As 
an essayist especially, while graceful and live- 
ly, she is compact and vigorous ; while through 
poems, essays, tales, and criticisms, (for her 
industrious pen seems equally skilful and hap- 
py in each of these depatments of literature, ) 
through all her manifold writings, indeed, 
there runs the same beautiful vein of philoso- 
phy, viz. : that truth and goodness of them- 
selves impart a holy light to the mind, which 
gives it a power far above mere intellectu- 
ality ; that the highest order of human in- 
telligence springs from the moral and not 
the reasoning faculties. 

One of her most popular poems is The 
Acorn, which, though inferior in high inspi- 
ration to The Sinless Child, is by many pre- 
ferred for its happy play of fancy and proper 
finish. Her sonnets, ol which she has writ- 
ten many, have not been as much admired 
as The April Rain, The Brook, and other fu- 
gitive pieces, which we find in many popu- 
lar collections. I doubt, indeed, whether they 
will ever attain the popularity of these "un- 
considered trifles," though they indicate con- 
centrated poetical power of a very high, pos- 
sibly of the very highest order. Not so, how- 
ever, with The Sinless Child. "Works of bad 
taste will often captivate the uncultivated 
many ; works of mere taste as often delight 
the cultivated few ; but works of genius ap- 
peal to the imiversal mind. 

The simplicity of diction, and pervading 
beauty and elevation of thought, which are 
the chief characteristics of The Sinless Child, 
bring it undoubtedly within the last category. 
And why do such writings seize at once on 
the feelings of every class ? Wherein lies 
this power of genius to wake a response in 
society ? Is it the force of a high will, fusing 
feeble natures, and stamping them for the 
moment with an impress of its own ? or is 
it that in every heart, imless thoroughly cor- 

177 



178 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



rupted by the world — in every mind, unless 
completely encrusted by cant, there lurks an 
inward sense of the simple, the beautiful, and 
the true ; an instinctive perception of excel- 
lence which is both more unerring and more 
universal than that of mere intellect. Such 
is the cheering view of humanity enforced in 
The Sinless Child, and the reception of it is 
evidence of the truth of the doctrine it so 
finely shadows forth. " It is a work," says a 
discriminating critic, " which demands more 
in its composition than mere imagination or 
intellect could supply ;" and I may add that 
the writer, in unconsciously picturing the 
actual graces of her own mind, has made an 
irresistible appeal to the ideal of soul-loveli- 
ness in the minds of her readers. She comes 
before us like the florist in Arabian story, 
whose magic vase produced a plant of such 
simple, yet perfect beauty, that the multitude 
were in raptures from the familiar field as- 
sociations of childhood which it called forth, 
while the skill of the learned alone detected 
the unique rarity of the enchanting flower. 
An analysis of The Sinless Child will not 
be attempted here, but a few passages are 
quoted to exhibit its graceful play of fancy 
and the pure vein of poetical sentiment by 
v/hich it is pervaded. And first, the episode 
of the Step-Mother : 

You speak of Hobert's second wife, 

A lofty dame and bold : 
I like not her forbiding air, 

And forehead high and cold. 
The orphans have no cause for grief. 

She dare not give it now, 
Though nothing but a ghostly fear 

Her heart of pride could bow. 

One night the boy his mother called : 

They heard him weeping say — 
" Sweet Mother, kiss poor Eddy's cheek, 

And wipe his tears away !" 
Red grew the lady's brow with rage, 

And yet she feels a strife 
Of anger and of terror too, 

At thought of that dead wife. 

Wild roars the wind, the lights bum blue, 

The watch-dog howls with fear ; 
Loud neighs the steed from out the stall : 

What form is gliding near ? 
No latch is raised, no step is heard, 

But a phantom fills the space — 
A sheeted spectre from the dead, 

With cold and leaden face ! 
What boots it that no other eye 

Beheld the shade appear? 
The guilty lady's guilty soul 

Beheld it plain and clear ! 



It slowly ghdes within the room, 

And sadly looks around — 
And stooping, kissed her daughter's cheek 

With lips that gave no sound ! 
Then softly on the stepdame's arm 

She laid a death-cold hand, 
Yet it hath scorched within the flesh 

Like to a burning brand ; 
And gUding on with noiseless foot, 

O'er winding stair and hall. 
She nears the chamber where is heard 

Her infant's trembling call. 
She smoothed the pillow where he lay, 

She warmly tucked the bed. 
She wiped his tears, and stroked the curls 

That clustered round his read. 
The child, caressed, unknovring fear, 

Hath nestled him to rest ; 
The mother folds her wings beside — 

The mother from the blest ! 

It is commonly difficult to select from a po- 
em of which the parts make one harmonious 
whole ; but the history of The Sinless Child 
is illustrated all through with cabinet pic- 
tures which are scarcely less effective whea 
separated from their series than when com- 
bined, and the reader will be gratified with a 
few of those which best exhibit the author's 
manner and feeling : 

GtJAHrlAN' ANGELS. 

With downy pinion they enfold 

The heart surcharged with wo. 
And fan with balmy wing the eye 

Whence floods of sorrow flow ; 
They bear, in golden censers up. 

That sacred gift, a tear — 
By which is registered the griefs 

Hearts may have suffered here. 
No inward pang, no yearning love 

Is lost to human hearts — 
No anguish that the spirit feels. 

When bright-winged Hope departs. 
Though in the mystery of life 

Discordant powers prevail; 
That life itself be weariness, 

And sympathy may fail : 
Yet all becomes a discipline. 

To lure us to the sky ; 
And angels bear the good it brings 

With fostering care on high. 
Though human hearts may weary grow, 

And sink to toil-spent sleep. 
And we are left in solitude 

And agony to weep : 
Yet they with ministering zeal 

The cup of healing bring. 
And bear our love and gratitude 

Away, on heavenward wing ; 
And thus the inner life is wrought. 

The blending earth and heaven — 
The love more earnest in its glow 

Where much has been forgiven ! 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



179 



FIELD ELVES. 

The tender violets bent in smiles 

To elves that sported nigh, 
Tossing the drops of fragrant dew 

To scent the evenmg sky. 
They kissed the rose in love and mirth, 

And its petals fairer grew ; 
A shower of pearly dust they brought, 

And o'er the lily threw. 

A host flew round the mowing field, 

And they were showering down 
The cooling spray on the early grass. 

Like diamonds o'er it thrown ; 
They gemmed each leaf and quivering spear 

With pearls of liquid dew. 
And bathed the stately forest tree 

TiU his robe was fresh and new. 

SUPERSTITION. 

For oft her mother sought the child 

Amid the forest glade, 
And marvelled that in darksome glen 

So tranquilly she stayed. 
For every jagged hmb to her 

A shadowy semblance hath 
Of spectres and distorted shapes, 

That frown upon her path, 
And mock her with their hideous eyes ; 

For when the soul is blind 
To freedom, truth, and inward light. 

Vague fears debase the mind. 

MIDSUMMER. 

'T is the summer prime, when the noiseless air 

In perfiimed chahce lies. 
And the bee goes by with a lazy hum. 

Beneath the sleeping skies : 
When the brook is low, and the ripples bright. 

As down the stream they go, 
The pebbles are dry on the upper side, 

And dark and wet below. 
The tree that stood where the soil's athirst, 

And the mulleins first appear. 
Hath a dry and rusty-colored bark. 

And its leaves are curled and sere ; 
But the dogwood and the hazel-bush 

Have clustered round the brook — 
Their roots have stricken deep beneath. 

And they have a verdant look. 
To the juicy leaf the grasshopper clings. 

And he gnaws it Uke a file ; 
The naked stalks are withering by, 

Where he has been erewhile. 
The cricket hops on the gUstering rock. 

Or pipes in the faded grass ; 
The beetle's wing is folded mute. 

Where the steps of the idler pass. 

CONSCIENCE. 

" Dear mother ! in ourselves is hid 

The holy spirit-land, 
Where Thought, the flaming cherub, stands 

With its relentless brand : 
We feel the pang when that dread sword 

Inscribes the hidden sin. 
And turneth everywhere to guard 

The paradise within." 



FLOWERS. 

Each tiny leaf became a scroll 

Inscribed with holy truth, 
A lesson that around the heart 

Should keep the dew of youth ; 
Bright missals from angeUc throngs 

In every by-way left — 
How were the earth of glory shorn. 

Were it of flowers bereft ! 

They tremble on the Alpine height ; 

The fissured rock they press ; 
The desert wild, with heat and sand. 

Shares, too, their blessedness : 
And wheresoe'er the weary heart 

Turns in its dim despair. 
The meek-eyed blossom upward looks. 

Inviting it to prayer. 

INFANT SLUMBER. 

A holy smile was on her lip 

Whenever sleep was there ; 
She slept, as sleeps the blossom, hushed 

Amid the silent air. 

Recently Mrs. Smith has turned her at- 
tention to the field which next to the epic is 
highest in the domain of literary art, and it 
is anticipated by those Avho have examined 
her tragedies that her success as a dramatic 
poet will secure for her a fame not promised 
by any of her previous achievements. The 
Roman Tribute, in five acts, refers to a fa- 
miliar period in the history of Constantinople 
when Theodosius saved the city from being 
sacked by paying its price to the victorious 
Attila ; and the subject suggests some admi- 
rable contrasts of rude integrity with treach- 
erous courtesy, of pagan piety with the craft 
of a nominal Christianity, still pervaded by 
heathen prejudice while uncontrolled by hea- 
then principle. The play opens with the 
spectacle of the frivolous monarch jesting 
with his court at their imcouth enemies, and 
exulting at the happy thought of buying them 
off with money. Then appears Anthemius, 
who had been absent, raising levies for the 
defence of the city, indignant at the coward- 
ly peace which makes the Roman tributary 
to the Hun, and — a soldier, a statesman, and 
a patriot — he determines to retrieve the na- 
tional honor. Perplexed as to the best means 
of doing this, he sees that the whole govern- 
ment must be recast. Hitherto Theodosius 
and his sister had between them sustained 
its administration, with Anthemius as prime 
minister. The princess had conceived for 
him an attachment, and would have thrown 
herself and the purple into his arms ; but he 
has no sympathy with her passion, and is in- 
tent only upon the emancipation of the em- 



180 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



pire by placing her alone in possession of 
the crown, and sacrificing Eudocia, the wife 
of Theodosius, who is rapidly growing in the 
popular favor. Outraged as a woman and a 
queen, Pulcheria offers to adjust state affairs 
by marrying the barbarian Attila, and An- 
themius seemingly accedes to the plan, re- 
solving to destroy the Hun at the bridal. But 
Attila rejects the proposal, and his answer is 
thus reported by Anthemius to his mistress : 
The Hun strade up and down his tent, and swore 
The plan was worthy Attila himself — 
Then laid his finger to his brow, and, thus — 
Gods what a progeny might spring such vains con- 
joined ! 
But she, lilce Attila, loves pomp and power — 
She, with her finely trained and haughty blood, 
Mine, with a kingly but barbaric flow : 
She, keen in mystery of subtle thought, 
I, making records with the sword and blood. 

Anthemius, influenced entirely by consid- 
erations of a public nature, at first resolves 
upon the destruction of Eudocia, but dis- 
gusted with the masculine energy and cruel 
craft of Pulcheria, as well as subdued by the 
gentler virtues of the suflfering queen, tries to 
save her life and place her upon the throne. 
He is persevering in the one purpose of 
saving the empire, and to accomplish this, 
proceeds to the camp of Attila, with the 
design of slaying him in the midst of his 
followers ; but the plot is betrayed by Hele- 
na, who trembles for the life of her lover 
Manlius, the friend and companion of An- 
themius ; and disappointed here, he next 
resolves that he shall die at the banquet 
prepared by the court, ostensibly in honor 
of the barbarian king, but in reality to poison 
him. The generous nature of Anthemius is 
touched by the hardy simplicity and truthful 
magnanimity of the rude warrior, and he 
dashes the poisoned chalice aside and dares 
him to single combat, in which the brave 
and patriotic minister is killed. The fol- 
lowing extract gives a portion of the last 
scene : 

Anthemius. Bear with me: we have fallen upon 
evil times. 
Attila, thou art a soldier, bred in the camp — ' 
For idle pastime hunting the wild boar. 
With hound and spear and sound of bugle-horn ; 
In wantonness you march to Rome, or here: 
Thy palace by the Danube bravely shows 
With reeking rafters, horns, and skins, and shields. 

Attila, (^Interrupting li Im.) And men, stout men, 
true, and a thousand strong. 

Ant. I do believe them true, and strong, and bold. 
Behold our blazoned walls — purple and gold ! 



Wine not fi'om tusk of boar, or horn of deer, 
But blushing golden in the golden vase — • 

Att. (scornfully.') A fairpictvire, proud Roman — 
goodly walls. 
With hollow faith — men, curled and perfumed ! 

Ant. Attila, we have fallen upon evil times : 
Listen! In that rude wooden home of thine [hound 
There's not the meanest serf would wrong his 
By mLxing poison with his food — there 's not — 

Att. No, by the eternal gods ! thou 'rt worthy, 
Roman, to be one of us. 

Ant. (waving his hand.') The most useless, the 
most old and outworn beast 
That human hand hath trifled with in love, 
Receives his death by honorable wound. 
Nor dies like a poor reptile in his hole. 

{^Dashes thd citp J'rom liivi and tlratos Itis sword. 

If thou 'rt God's Fate, show thy credentials now ! 
Honor to thy rude service : thy barbaric faith — 
Here stand — thou for thy sldn-clad hordes, and I 
For Rome ! 

There is a striking and not uimatural con- 
trast in the character of the two queens. 
Pulcheria is haughty, revengeful, intelligent, 
and imaginative. Remorseless in the pur- 
suit of an object, and unflinching in the most 
daring action, she is yet so much a woman 
as to love passionately — almost tenderly — 
and when evil follows her policy, haunted 
in secret by shapes of conscience, which, to 
her excited and powerful imagination, take 
tangible forms and beset her path, she med- 
itates the death of Eudocia : 

It seemed I heard a dirge, a sound of wo — 
Wo, wo ! it said. Was it Eudocia's voice 1 
How my heart beats, and its perturbed play 
Hath conjured sounds too wildly like its own — 

EUDOCIA ctitL'rj. iirw!'sr:rvi:d, and protwunc^i hir name s^ftii/ 

Who called 1 — the sUghtest sound grows fearful to 
Ay, thus it is, that we in our poor pride [me ! 
By our earth-serving senses are beguiled ; 
Our overweening self shapes any sound 
To invocation of our name, and we 
Recoil as 'twere a summons from the dead. 
Eudocia, (softly.') The child starts from his in- 
nocent pillow 
And answers with a smile, for he believes 
The angels called him with their sweet rose lips. 

[EUDOCIA rctirts. 

Put. She is gone, and with her my good angel. 
I shall be haunted by the blackest fiends. 
We have sat embowered in friendly converse : 
Avaunt I what dost thou say, thou gibbering imp 
Hark ! I have slumbered with thee until now — ■ 
A nameless, shapeless, wingless, couchant thing, 
Within the filmy vesture of the soul, 
Until thy evil hour evoked me forth. 
Oh God ! I dare not pray, and this within : 
She lives ! no sheeted ghost hath leave to walk, 
And curdle up my blood with its dead stare. 

Fearful to sacrifice Eudocia at once, she 
entangles her in the meshes of court craft 
till she is finally destroyed, and Pulcheria 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



181 



lives to enjoy her state alone. Eudocia is 
the reverse of the empress, gentle, affection- 
ate, and trustful ; the force of her character 
is evolved solely through her tenderness for 
her child. Beloved by Theodosius, she is 
disgusted at his imbecile sensuality, while 
her graces have won upon the barbarian heart 
of Bleda, the brother of Attila, who would 
gladly win her to himself and usurp the 
throne. Eudocia is a woman, but one steady 
in her devotion to duty. Through this par- 
tiality of Bleda, Pulcheria is able to work the 
downfall of the queen. She has gone to the 
house of her father, Leontius, who is a philos- 
opher, where Bleda has also gone to learn the 
usages and philosophy of a more polite people. 
Here he is taken ill, and Eudocia, partly in 
waywardness and partly in admiration for 
his character, insists upon playing the leech. 
Pulcheria brings Theodosius, who finds her 
kneeling by the couch. She is thrown into 
prison ; thence she escapes to the chamber 
of her husband, designing to kill him in re- 
venge for her wrongs, but, overcome with 
pitj^ she turns away, and dies of overwrought 
grief in the arms of Anthemius, who has tried 
in vain to save her. The following is a part 
of her interview with Bleda : 

Eud. Perchance the priest would best become 

thy case. 
Bk. A priest ! I do abhor the murmuring tribe. 
Thine air bespeaks thee gentle as thy sex : 
Art thou not one of those, once sacred held 
As priestess of a shrine 1 The ancient gods 
Whom our forefathers worshipped in their strength, 
It is not well to spurn : if such art thou, 
A secret will he held most sacred by thee. 

Eud. Nay, mistake me not. [office. 

Bk. Thou needst not fear ; I do respect thine 
Eud. It is enough ; thy leech is unknown to thee. 
Bk. {starting and taking hold of her veil.) By 

the gods — that voice ! 
Eud. Our art is learned by dames of gentle blood. 
Who sit with patient toil and lips contract, 
If so they may relieve one human pang. 
The ghastly wound appals us not, nor yet 
The raging fury of the moonstruck brain ; 
Not wrinkled hags are we, with corded veins. 
Croaking with spells the midnight watches through. 
But some are fair as she, the vestal mother. 

Bk. And such art thou, might I but cast aside 
This envious veil ; thy voice is crystalline, 
Like water moss-incrusted in its flow ! [befit 

Eud. I will hear thee, prince — such tale as may 
A woman's ear. 

Bk. (aside.") Now, Bleda, shape thy speech : 
Power and love both urge thee to the goal ! 
[To Eudocia.] I have made my way with trusty 

sword and shield. 
Nor falsehood known — there is no other crime- 



But thou, all passionless, cold, and serene — 
Thy truth, like drops preserved in cubes of stone, 
For drinking of the gods, can know no change. 

Eud. (aside.) Thanks, thanks, for words so high. 

Bk, I am sick of love — love of a dame 
Whose dovelike eyes have robbed me of all rest. 
The world is in the market, and all bid : 
Then why not Bleda, urged less by pride than love 1 
I would become a Christian ; the meanest knight 
Who doth her service, should his office yield 
To me a prince, might I but win one smile. 
The fair Eudocia ■ [talkest treason ! 

Eud. (starting.) Lift not thy aspect there ; thou 

Bk. (aside.) She listens. I can hear the beating 
This can not, must not be a dream ! [of her heart ; 
[To Eudocia.] Eudocia loathes the sensual, weak- 
ling, dotard 
Emperor of Rome : she should cast the bondage off. 
And for herself and child assure the reins, [hence. 

Eud. (aside.) I can not lift my laiees, or I would 
[^To BiEDA.] Thy tale — I must away. 

Bk. 'T is told : I love Eudocia ! and thou 

Eud. Thy words ai-e madness ! [^Aside.2 And yet 
they steal 
Like dew into the parched bud, and lure 
My aching, vacant heart to maddening bliss. 

Bk. Eudocia must be saved, and who but Bleda 
W^ill Uft a finger for the rescue ? [dead ! 

Eud. Nothing can be done ; she and Rome are 

Bk. Is human will so impotent and vain 1 
Shall we see the wolf with fang upon the lamb. 
Nor stir to aid ] the vulture tear the dove, 
And we forbear the shaft ! No, by the fates ! 

Eud. (faintli/.) Such are God's children: 'tis 
their doom, my lord. 

Bk. And we are made avengers of their doom. 

[EUDOCIA points to a r'm^ on tlic finger of the Prince, 

Such ills admit of no redemption — none ! 
Behold this circlet: Ughtly worn as 'tis. 
It hath not failed to leave its scar behind. 
We can not raze the traces of the past ; 
Heal up the jagged wound, and leave no seam ; 
Tread down the burning ploughshare with our feet, 
And feel ourselves unscathed : it is our doom. 
And we by patient sufferance keep our souls. 

Then follows the surprise of the court, in 
which she defends herself with gentle dig- 
nity, but is disgraced and imprisoned. Pul- 
cheria visits her and leaves a dagger, and 
the rooms ajar ; and she proceeds to the cham- 
ber of Theodosius, determined to revenge her 
wrongs : 

Eud. The stillness of this room is most terrible ! 
I wish that he would move. 

\^She lifts the Jng^er and rtppj-oaches the cotich. 

Oh, the long, long, eternal sleep ! He stirs ! now — 
No, he sleeps. 'Tis pitiful : the jaw adown ; 
The loose brown flesh impending round the chin ; 
The eyes, like sunken and encased balls. 
Shut in front speculation ; the thin locks, 
AU wantoned by the wind, do mock at them ! 
Helpless and sleeping with his folded hands 

[She iurits away. 

Oh, I am glad to mark there is no Ime 



182 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



To win on human love — nor any shows 

Nor prints of grand old worth to plead for him ; 

No imperial majesty is there — ■ 

No lion-like rebuke, uncurbed by sleep, 

To shame me for the deed that I will do. 

[A'ttKTTW Quit l/eiteli over hint. 

A haggard, pallid, weak, bad man asleep ! 
Oh, weakness ! thou hast thy power : a pity grows 
Too tenible upon me ; it shields thee [locks ! 
More than love ; it pleads amid these whitening 

Then follows her interview with her child, 
and final burst of feeling, in which she ex- 
pires. To her child she says : 

Boy, thou wilt be a man anon, and learn 
Hard, cruel, manlike ways : thou wilt break hearts, 
And think it brave pastime ; thou wilt rule men, 
And for the pleasure of thy petty will 
Make pools of blood, and top thy pikes with heads ; 
Burn cities, and condemn the little ones 
To bleed and die within their mother's arms ! 

Child, (weeping.) I will never be so vile ; I will 
And merciful as thou hast taught me. [be brave 

Eud. (^fondly.) Wilt thou, pretty dear 1 Thou 
art a brave boy. 
Wilt always love me ? Look here into mine eyes : 
My own brave boy, when men shall evil speak. 
Defame and curse me, wilt thou forget to love 1 

Child. Never! 

Eud. Never, my brave boy ; and when evil tongues 
Shall make thy mother's name a blush, wilt thou, 
Mine own dear child, wilt thou believe ? 

Child. Never! 

Eud. My boy, dost thou remember thy poor dove. 
Thy white-winged dove, which the fell hawk pur- 
And sprinkled all the marble with his blood ? [sued. 

Child, (sobbi>igl) My poor, dear dove ! 

Eud. Ay, thine innocent dove ! 
Listen, child ! In the long hereafter years. 
Wilt thou remember me as that poor dove. 
Hawked down and done to death by cruel hands 1 
Think this, and God himself will bless thee I 

To Anthemius, who urges her to speak the 
word, and he will avenge her and raise her 
to the throne, she says : 

That little word would yawn a gulf beneath my 
No more : that ready dagger told its bad tale, [feet. 
But I have closed the well of blackness up — 
Have seen the pitying angel pleading 
In the locks of him, the weak and unloved one. 
Till my uplifted dagger fell. I wept 
Tears of unmmgled pity — aching tears ! 
Empire has long since faded iirom my thought : 
The nearer view of an eternal world 
Makes my poor, injured name a nothingness ; 
A mother's love alone survives the wreck. 

The reverse of these painful scenes is the 
love of Manlius and Helena, in which sim- 
ple affections and everj'-day perceptions take 
the place of more profound emotions. The 
character of Petrus gives opportunity for 
quaint humor as well as efficient advance- 
ment of the plot. 



Mrs. Oakes-Smith's next work was Jacob 
Leisler, a Tragedy. Its general character 
will be inferred from its title. There is not 
perhaps in American history a finer subject 
for dramatic illustration than the revolution 
in New York in 1680, but hitherto it had 
failed of attention from any author of ade- 
quate abilities. The story is in some re- 
spects like that of Massaniello, but Leisler 
was a gentleman, and was never, like the 
Neapolitan, made " drunk with power," but 
was all through the important scenes of his 
elevation, administration, and overthrow, a 
calm, sagacious, and brave man, equal to 
anything within the scope of lawful action 
or experience-suggesting probabilities that 
might be demanded for the common welfare. 
The interest of the play turns largely upon 
a striking underplot of domestic life which 
much aiffects and hastens the political dc- 
nouement. The heroine, Elizabeth Howard, 
is an original and noble creation, and the vi- 
cissitudes of her life give occasion for dis- 
plays of lofty sentiment and careful analysis 
of the heart, in scenes where tendernfes be- 
comes pathos, devotion sublimity, and the 
illustrations of a passionate fancy kindle up- 
on the confines of imagination. In England 
she has been married to a man named Slough- 
ter, from whom, for reasons developed in the 
play, she has separated and fled to America, 
where she keeps the secret of her early his- 
tory, and has been for some time happily 
married to Leisler, when — he meantime 
having become the people's governor — she 
hears that Sloughter has arrived on the coast 
to demand the seals of the province for the 
crown. The following scene here succeeds, 
an interview between Elizabeth and an old 
and confidential servant : 

ELIZABETH and HANNAH. 

Eliz. Nay, it must be told : he might hear of it 
In the market-place, or on the battle-field. 
Leave me, my good Hannah. 

Ha7i. Oh, dearest madam ! you are so still — 
Eliz. Leave me — it were best. ^Exit Hamnah. 
How mournfully, how yearningly have I 
Longed for thy presence, velvet-footed Peace ! 
The drudging housewife singing at her toil 
I have most envied ; and the market dame. 
Content with her small gains, and with the cheer 
Homely but hearty of the wayside boor. 
Provokes me to a spleen. Oh, thou lowly [mom, 
Common flesh, braced by the rosy, sweet-breathed 
Could yet but see the ruby-girdled heart. 
How would ye shrink with dread, and bless the lot 

Of honest toil ! 

I do forget the secret of my giief. 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



183 



Ettur LEISI.ER, hurrlcdhi. 

Lets, yij sweet wife, thou art fit to wear a crown ! 
I'll give thee what is better : thou dost rule 
Him who rules the people by their own free choice. 
Look up, dearest ! I am the people's king — 
Not king — nay, God forbid, in this great land! — 
But what ails thee, sweet 1 these times oppress thee. 

[i>es the leicer. 

A letter 1 well, put it by — I '11 none of it ; 
I shall be much abroad — shall see thee less — 
So we will seize the present bliss as sure. 
How beautiful thou art, and yet so pale, 
So very sad ! What is it, love 1 

Eliz. The vase of life is rarely garland-crowned. 

Leis. Way, dearest, thou dost think me ambitious, 
And tremblest lest the household alter dim. 

Eliz. Nay, fill thee wilh great thoughts, and me 
forget. 

Leis. Thou dost reproach me, love ; it can not be. 

Eliz. Dost love me, Leisler'? 

Lds. Love thee, Bess 1 To doatingness, to mad- 
ness ! 

Eliz. Because that I am fair, and true, and good ? 

Leis. A very angel ; nay, better, an all, all wo- 
man^ 

Eliz. Dost love me, Leisler ? 

Leis. My own wife, thou knowest T do love thee. 

Eliz. I love to hear thee say it : I will remember. 

Leis. Thou art ill ; thy hands cold — thy cheek so 
pale! 
These times are too much for thee. 

Eliz. Dost love me, Leisler 1 

Leis. Ah, Bess, dear Bess, thou art ill ! Dost 
love me ? 

Eliz. Love thee? words have no meaning to my 
deep love ! 
It hath purged me from the weakness of my sex, 
And made me new create in thee. Love thee % 
I had not lived until I knew thee ! 

Love thee 1 Oh oh oh ! [ rnrmm hn-self imo bis arms. 

Leis. My wife, my love, what has moved thee 
thus? 

Eliz. Ah, the letter! shall I tell it theel 

Leis. Yes — let me know the worst. 

Eliz. The worst 1 

Leis. Yes, the worst : it can not touch our love. 

Eliz. Touch our love 1 

Leis. Nay, the letter 

Eliz. I have a friend, who was once exceeding 
fair. 
They tell me she is wan and changed now. 
Poor thing I she broke the heart of him she loved : 
And she did love so well — as I love thee ! [^weeps. 

Leis. My poor Bess ! do not tell it now. 

Eliz. I must tell it thee. Well, she was wedded, 
A simple child, with childhood's vacant heart. 
The days wore on ; the night succeeded day ; 
And she did loathe him in her very soul, 
And loathed herself to such vile bondage held. 
She left him ! 

Leis. The tale should not be in thy mouth, sweet 
wife. 

Eliz. She did not love another 

Leis. Had she not felt the stirring of a life 
Within her own 1 small, pleading, upward hands, 
Or piping voice steal to a mother's heart 1 



Eliz. Oh, never, never ! I did know her well : 
She would have died sooner than leave her child 
To stranger hands ; nay , more than this,had lived — 
In bitterness had cherished life for it ; 
Not all the deadening miseries that wait 
On constrained love — not all the tortures felt 
By th' recoiling nerve and shrinking sense — 
Not all the blight and famine of the soul 
Had moved her to forget a mother's love. 

Leis. 'T is a sad tale, Bess ; think no more of it. 

Eliz. This is not all. Years passed, and she did 
love — — 

Leis. Talk no more of her ; we can hut pity. 

Eliz. {drawing back.') This is not all : she buried 
up the past ; 
She loved and was beloved, and held the secret still. 

Leis. She was infamously peijured. 

Eliz. She married him she loved 

Leis. No more of the vile adultress ! 

Eliz. Leisler, Leisler, I am that woman ! 

Leis. (tenderly.') Alas ! she has gone mad ! — ■ 
My fond wife ! 

Eliz. Would to God it were madness, hut 'tis 
true I 

[LEISLER staggers to One side ; she throws herself nt hisj'cet. 

Oh, I have lulled thee — killed thee ! Speak to me, 
Curse me — stab me to the heart — but look not thus ! 
See here ! [ Opens her hosom.'] To die by thy hand 

Avere joy indeed ; 
I '11 kiss the dagger's point, and kiss thy hand — ■ 
And forfeit heaven itself, if, ere I die, 
Thou wilt but smile and kiss me once again S 

There are in this tragedy several scenes 
of great power, among which are that in 
which Elizabeth poisons her child, and that 
in which she discovers herself to the hus- 
band whom she had abandoned, to plead ibr 
the life of the husband by whom she has her- 
self been cast off, abhorred and contemned. 

The prose writings of Mrs. Oakes-Smith 
— for the most part printed in magazines 
and other miscellanies — are characterized 
by- qualities similar to those which mark 
her poetry. Her most elaborate' performan- 
ces are The Western Captive, a novel, pub- 
lished in 1842, and her last work, recently 
issued by Putnam, with illustrations by Dar- 
ley, entitled The Salamander, a Legend for 
Christmas, purporting to be by " Ernest Hel- 
fenstein," a name under which she has fre- 
quently written. 

The great and peculiar merits of Mrs. 
Oakes-Smith are so fully illustrated, in what 
has been remarked in the preceding pages, 
and in the liberal extracts that are here given 
from her works, that little remains to be ad- 
ded upon the subject. In the drama, in the 
sonnet, and in miscellaneous poems of im- 
agination and fancy, she has vindicated her 
right to a place among the first poets of her sex. 



184 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



THE ACOaN. 

LuxG years ago, when our headlands hroke 

The silent wave below, 
And bird-song then the morn awoke 

Where towers a city now ; 
When the red man saw on every cliff, 

Half seen and half in shade, 
A tiny form, or a pearly skiff. 

That sought the forest glade — 

An acorn fell from an old oak-tree. 

And lay on the frosty ground : 
" Oh, what shall the fate of the acorn be 1" 

"Vl^as whispered all around. 
By low-toned voices, chiming sweet. 

Like a floweret's bell when swung — 
And grasshopper steeds were gathering fleet, 

And the beetle's hoofs uprung ; 

For the woodland Fays came sweeping past 

In the pale autumnal ray. 
Where the forest-leaves were falling fast, 

And the acorn quiverhig lay ; 
They came to tcU what its fate should be, 

Though life was unrevealed ; 
For life is a holy mystery, 

Where'er it is concealed. 

They came vrith gifts that should life bestow : 

The dew and the Uving air — 
The bane that should work it deadly wo — 

The iitt'.e men had there. 
In the gray moss-cup was the mildew brought, 

The worm in a rose-leaf rolled. 
And many things with destruction fraught, 

That its doom were quickly told. 

But it needed not ; for a blessed fate 

Was the acorn's meant to be : 
The spirits of earth should its birth-time wait. 

And watch o'er its destiny. 
To nix OF THE SHELL was the task assigned 

To bury the acorn deep. 
Away from the frost and searching wind. 

When they through the forest sweep. 
'Twas a dainty sight, the small thing's toil. 

As, bowed beneath the spade. 
He balanced his gossamer wings the while 

To peep in the pit he made. 
A thimble's depth it was scarcely deep. 

When the spade aside he threw. 
And rolled the acorn away to sleep 

In the hush of dropping dew. 
The spring-time came with its fresh, warm air, 

And gash of woodland song; 
The dew came down, and the rain was there, 

And the sunshine rested long : 
Then softly the black earth turned aside. 

The old leaf arching o'er. 
And up, where the last year's leaf was dried. 

Came the acorn-shell once more. 
Vv'ith coiled stem, and a pale-green hue, 

It looked but a feeble thing ; 
Then deeply its root abroad it threw. 

Its strength from the earth to bring. 
The woodland sprites are gathering round, 

Rejoiced that the task is done — 



That another life fi'ora the noisome ground 
Is up to the pleasant sun. 

The young child passed with a careless tread. 

And the germ had well nigh crushed ; 
But a spider, launched on her airy thread. 

The cheek of the sti'ipling brushed. 
He httle kirew, as he started back, 

How the acorn's fate was hung 
On the very point in the spider's track 

Where the web on his cheek was flung. 

The autumn came — it stood alone. 

And bowed as the wind passed by — 
The wind that uttered its dirgelike moan 

In the old oak sere and dry ; 
The hollow branches creaked and swayed. 

But they bent not to the blast. 
For the stout oak-tree, where centuries played, 

AVas sturdy to the last. 

But the sapling had no strength as yet 

Such peril to abide. 
And a thousand guards were round it set 

To evil turn aside. 
A hunter boy beheld the shoot. 

And an idle prompting grew 
To sever the stalk from the spreading root. 

And his knife at once he drew. 

His hand was stayed ; he knew not why : 

'Twas a presence breathed around — 
A pleading from the deep-blue sky. 

And up from the teeming ground. 
It told of the care that had lavished been 

In sunshine and in dew — 
Of the many things that had wrought a screen 

\Mien peril around it grew. 

It told of the oak that once had bowed, 

As feeble a thing to see ; 
But now, when the storm was raging loud. 

It wrestled mightily. 
There 's a deeper thought on the hunter's brow, 

A new love at his heart ; 
And he ponders much, as with footsteps slow 

He turns him to depart. 

Up grew the twig, with a vigor hold, 

In the shape of the parent tree. 
And the old oak knew that his doom was told, 

When the sapUng sprang so free. 
Then the fierce winds came, and they raging tore 

The hollow limbs away ; 
And the damp moss crept from the earthy floor 

Round the trunk, timeworn and gray. 

The young oak grew, and proudly grew, 

For its roots were deep and sh-ong; 
And a shadow broad on the earth it threw. 

And the sunshine lingered long 
On its glossy leaf, where the flickering light 

Was flung to the evening sky ; 
And the wild bird sought to its airy height, 

And taught her young to fly. 

In acorn-time came the truant boy, 

With a wild and eager look. 
And he marked the tree with a wondering joy, 

As the wind the great limbs shook. 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



185 



He looked where the moss on the north side grew, 

The gnarled arms outspread, 
The solemn shadow the huge tree threw, 

As it towered above his head : 

And vague-like fears the boy surround. 

In the shadow of that tree ; 
So growing up iiom the darksome ground, 

Like a giant mystery. 
His heart beats quick to the squirrel's tread 

On the withered leaf and dry, 
And he lit\s not up his awe-struck head 

As the eddying \\ind sweeps by. 

All regally the stout oak stood, 

In its vigor and its pride ; 
A monarch owned in the solemn wood. 

With a sceptre spreading wide — 
No more in the wintry blast to bow. 

Or rock in the summer breeze ; 
But draped in green, or starlike snow, 

Reign king of the forest trees. 

A thousand years it firmly grew, 

A thousand blasts defied ; 
And, mighty in strength, its broad arms threw 

A shadow dense and wide. 
Change came to the mighty things of earth — 

Old empires passed away ; 
Of the generations that had birth, 

Death ! where, where are they ? 

Yet fresh and green the brave oak stood, 

Nor dreamed it of decay. 
Though a thousand times in the autumn wood 

Its leaves on the pale earth lay. 
It grev/ where the rocks were bursting out 

From the thin and heaving soil — - 
Where the ocean's roar and the sailor's shout 

Were mingled in wild turmoil ; 

Where the far-off sound of the restless deep 

Came up with a booming swell ; 
And the white foam dashed to the rocky steep. 

But it loved the tumult well. 
Then its huge hmbs creaked in the midnight air. 

And joined in the rude uproar ; 
For it loved the storm and the lightning's glare. 

And the wave-lashed iron shore. 

The bleaching bones of the sea-burd's prey 

Were heaped on the rocks below ; 
And the bald-head eagle, fierce and gray, 

Looked off from its topmost bough. 
Where the shadow lay on the quiet wave 

The light boat often swung, 
And the stout ship, saved from the ocean-grave. 

Her cable round it flung. 

A sound comes down in the forest trees. 

And echoing from the hill ; 
It floats far oft' on the summer breeze. 

And the shore resounds it shrill. 
Lo ! the monarch tree no more shall stand 

Like a watchtower of the main — 
A giant mark of a giant land 

That may not come again. 

The stout old oak ! — 'Twas a worthy tree, 
j^nd the builder marked it out ; 



He smiled its angled limbs to see. 

As he measured the trunk about. 

Already to him was a gallant bark 
Careering the rolling deep. 

And in sunshine, calm, or tempest dark, 
Her way she will proudly keep. 

The chisel cUcks, and the hammer rings, 

The merry jest goes round ; 
'WTiile he who longest and loudest sings 

Is the stoutest workman found. 
W^ith jointed rib and trunnelled plank 

The work goes gayly on, 
And light-spoke oaths, when the glass they drank. 

Are heard tiU the task is done. 

She sits on the stocks, the skeleton ship, 

With her oaken ribs all bare. 
And the child looks up with parted lip. 

As it gathers fuel there : 
With brimless hat, the barefoot boy 

Looks round with strange amaze, 
And dreams of a sailor's hfe of joy 

Are mingling in that gaze. 

With graceful waist and carvings brave 

The trim hull waits the sea — 
She proudly stoops to the crested wave. 

While round go the cheerings tlu'ee. 
Her prow swells up from the yesty deep. 

Where it plunged in foam and spray : 
And the glad waves gathering round hGi* ?weep 

And buoy her in their play. 

Thou wert nobly reared, heart of oak ! 

In the sound of the ocean roar. 
Where the surging wave o'er the rough rock broke, 

And bellowed along the shore : 
And how wilt thou in the storm rejoice. 

With the wind through spar and shroud, 
To hear a soimd like the forest voice. 

When the blast was raging loud ! 

With snow-white sail, and streamer gay, 

She sits like an ocean-sprite. 
Careering on her trackless way. 

In sunshine or midnight : 
Her course is laid with fearless skill. 

For brave hearts man the helm ; 
And the joyous winds her canvass fill : 

Shall the wave the stout sliip whelm 'i 

On, on she goes, where icebergs roll. 

Like floating cities by ; 
Where meteors flash by the northern pole, 

And the merry dancers fly ; 
Where the glittering Hght is backward flung 

From icy tower and dome. 
And the frozen shrouds are gayly hung 

With gems from the ocean foam. 
On the Bii-man sea was her shadow cast. 

As it lay like molten gold. 
And her pendent shroud and towering mast 

Seemed twice on the waters told. 
The idle canvass slowly swung 

As the spicy breeze went by. 
And strange, rare music around her rung 

From the palm-tree growing nigh. 



186 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



Oh, gallant ship, thou didst bear with thee 

The gay and the breaking heart, 
And weeping eyes looked out to see 

Thy white-spread sails depart. 
And when the rattling casement told 

Of many a perilled ship. 
The anxious wife her babes would fold, 

And pray with trembling lip. 

The petrel wheeled in her stormy flight, 

The wind piped shrill and high ; 
On the topmast sat a pale-blue light, 

That flickered not to the eye : 
The black cloud came like a banner down, 

And down came the shrieking blast; 
The quivering ship on her beams is thrown. 

And gone are helm and mast ! 

Helmless, but on before the gale. 

She ploughs the deep-troughed wave : 
A gurgling sound — a phrensied wail — 

And the ship hath found a grave ! 
And thus is the fate of the acom told, 

That fell from the old oak-tree, 
And HE OF THE SHELL in the frosty mould 

PreseiTed for its destiny. 



THE DROWNED MARINER. 

A siAEiNEB sat on the shrouds one night, 

The wind was piping free ; 
Now bright, now dimmed was the moonlight pale, 
A nd the phosphor gleamed in the wake of the whale. 

As he floundered in the sea; 
The scud was flying athwart the sky. 
The gathering winds went whistling by, 
And the wave as it towered, then fell in spray. 
Looked an emerald wall in the moonlight ray. 

The mariner swayed and rocked on the mast, 

But the tumult pleased him well; 
Down the yawning wave his eye he cast. 
And the monsters watched as they hurried past, 

Or lightly rose and fell ; 
For their broad, damp fins were under the tide. 
And they lashed as they passed the vessel's side, 
And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim. 
Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him. 
Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship goes 

Like an uncurbed steed along, 
A sheet of flame is the spray she throws, 
As her gallant prow the water ploughs — 

But the ship is fleet and strong : 
The topsails are reefed and the sails are furled, 
And onward she sweeps o'er the watery world, 
And dippeth her spars in the surging flood ; 
But there came no chill to the mariner's blood. 

Wildly she rocks, but he swingeth at ease. 
And holds him by the shroud ; 

And as she careens to the crowding breeze, 

The gaping deep the mariner sees, 

And the surging heareth loud. 

Was that a face, looking up at him, 

With its palUd cheek and its cold eyes dim 1 

Did it beckon him down 1 did it call his name ? 

Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came. 



The mariner looked, and he saw with dread, 

A face he knew too well ; 
And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead. 
And its long hair out on the wave was spread, 

Was there a tale to tell ? 
The stout ship rocked with a reeling speed, 
And the mariner groaned, as well he need. 
For ever down, as she plunged on her side. 
The dead face gleamed from the briny tide. 

Bethink thee, mariner, well of the past, 

A voice calls loud for thee — 
There 's a stifled prayer, the first, the last. 
The plunging ship on her beam is cast. 

Oh, where shall thy burial be t 
Bethink thee of oaths that were lightly spoken. 
Bethink thee of vows that were lightly broken, 
Bethink thee of all that is dear to thee — 
For thou art alone on the raging sea : 

Alone in the dark, alone on the wave. 

To buflet the storm alone — 
To struggle aghast at thy watery grave, 
To struggle, and feel there is none to save — 

God shield thee, helpless one ! 
The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past. 
The trembling hands on the deep are cast. 
The white brow gleams a moment more. 
Then slowly sinks — the struggle is o'er. 

Down, down where the storm is hushed to sleep, 

Where the sea its dirge shall swell. 
Where the amber drops for thee shall weep, 
And the rose-lipped shell her music keep. 

There thou shalt slumber well. 
The gem and the pearl lie heaped at thy side, 
They fell from the neck of the beautiful bride. 
From the strong mans hand,from the maiden's brow, 
As they slowly sunk to the wave below. 

A peopled home is the ocean bed. 

The mother and child are there — 
The fervent youth and the hoary head. 
The maid, with her floating locks outspread. 

The babe with its silken hair. 
As the water moveth they lightly sway. 
And the tranquil lights on their features play ; 
And there is each cherished and beautiful form, 
Away from decay, and away from the storm. 



TO THE HUDSON. 

Oh, river ! gently as a wayward child 

I saw thee mid the moonlight hills at rest ; 
Capricious thing, with thine own beauty wild. 

How didst thou still the throbbings of thy breast ! 
Rude headlands were about thee, stooping round. 

As if amid the hills to hold thy stay ; 
But thou didst hear the far-off ocean sound, 

Inviting thee from hill and vale away, 
To mingle thy deep waters with its own ; 

And, at that voice, thy steps did onward glide. 
Onward from echoing hill and valley lone. 

Like thine, oh, be my course — nor turned aside, 
While listing to the soundings of a land. 
That like the ocean call invites me to its strand. 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



187 



SONNETS. 



I. POEST. 



With no fond, sickly thirst for fame, I kneel, 

goddess of the high-born art, to thee ; 
Not unto thee with semblance of a zeal 

1 come, O pure and heaven-eyed Poesy ! 
Thou art to me a spirit and a love, 

Felt ever from the time when first the earth, 
In its green beauty, and the sky above 

Informed my soul with joy too deep for mirth. 
I was a child of thine before my tongue 

Could lisp its infant utterance unto thee, 
And now, albeit from zny harp are flung 

Discordant numbers, and the song may be 
That which I would not, yet I know that thou 

The offering wilt not spurn, while thus to thee Ibow. 



II. THE BARD. 

It can not be, the baffled heart, in vain, 
May seek, amid the crowd, its throbs to hide ; 
Ten thousand other kindred pangs may bide. 

Yet not tlie less will our own griefs complain. 

Chained to our rock, the vulture's gory stain 
And tearing beak is every moment rife. 
Renewing pangs that end but with our life. 

Thence bursteth forth the gushing voice of song, 
The soul's deep anguish thence an utterance finds, 
Appealing to all hearts : and human minds 

Bow down in awe : thence doth the Bard belong 

Unto all times : the laurel steeped in wrong 

Unsought is his : his soul demanded bread, [stead. 

And ye, charmed with the voice, gave but a stone in- 



IIT. AN IXCIDENT. 

A SIMPLE thing, yet chancing as it did. 

When hfe was bright with its illusive dreams, 
A pledge and promise seemed beneath it hid ; 

The ocean lay before me, tinged with beams 
That lingering draped the west, a wavering stir. 

And at my feet down fell a worn, gray quill ; 
An eagle, high above the darkling fir. 

With steady flight, seemed there to take his fill 
Of that pure ether breathed by him alone. 

O noble bird ! why didst thou loose for me 
Thy eagle plume 1 still unessayed, unknown 

Must be that pathway fearless vringed by thee ; 
I ask it not, no lofty flight be mine, 
I would not soar like thee, in loneliness to pine ! 



IT. THE CNATTAINED. 

And is this life 1 and are we born for this t 
To follow phantoms that elude the grasp, 
Or whatsoe'er secured, within our clasp, 

To withering lie, as if each earthly kiss [meet. 
Were doomed Death's shuddering touch alone to 

Life ! hast thou reserved no cup of bliss 1 
Must still THE UNATTAiNED beguile our feet 1 

The UNATTAINED with yearnings fill the breast. 

That rob, for ay, the spirit of its rest ] 
Yes, this is Life ; and everywhere we meet, 
Not victor crowns, but wailings of defeat ; 

Yet faint thou not, thou dost apply a test 
That shall incite thee onward, upward still. 
The present can not sate nor e'er thy spirit fill. 



V. THE -WIEE. 

All day, like some sweet bird, content to sing 

In its small cage, she moveth to and fi'o — 
And ever and anon will upward spring 

To her sweet lips, fresh from the fount below, 
The murmured melody of pleasant thought. 

Unconscious uttered, gentle-toned and low. 
Light household duties, evermore inwrought 

With placid fancies of one trustuig heart 
That lives but in her smile, and turns 

From life's cold seeming and the busy mart. 
With tenderness, that heavenward ever yearns 
To be refreshed where one pure altar burns. 

Shut out from hence, the mockery of life, [wife. 

Thus liveth she content, the meek, fond, trusting 



TI. BELieiOJf. 

AioNE, yet not alone, the heart doth brood 
With a sad fondness o'er its hidden grief ; 

Broods with a miser's joy, wherein relief 
Comes with a semblance of its own quaint mood. 

How many hearts this point of life have passed ! 

And some a train of light behind have cast. 
To show us what hath been, and what may he ; 

That thus have suffered all the wise and good. 

Thus wept and prayed, thus struggled and were free. 
So doth the pilot, trackless through the deep, 
Unswerving by the stars his reckoning keep. 

He moves a highway not untried before. 
And thence he coui'age gains, and joy doth reap. 

Unfaltering lays his course, and leaves behind the 
shore. 

TII. THE DHEAM. 

I DBEAMED last night, that I myself did lay 

Within the grave, and after stood and wept. 

My spirit sorrowed where its ashes slept ! 
'T was a strange dream, and yet methinks it may 

Prefigure that which is akin to truth. 

How sorrow we o'er perished dreams of youth, 
High hopes and aspirations doomed to be 
Crushed and o'ermastered by earth's destiny ! 

Fame, that the spirit loathing turns to ruth — 
And that deluding faith so loath to part, 
That earth will shrine for us one kindred heart ! 

Oh, 'tis the ashes of such things that wring 
Tears from the eyes — ^hopes like to these depart. 

And we bow down in dread, o'ershadowed by 
Death's wing ! 



viir. watfahehs. 
Eakth careth for her own — the fox lies down 

In her warm bosom, and it asks no more. 
The bird, content, broods in its lowly nest. 
Or its fine essence stirred, with wing outflown, 

Circles in airy rounds to heaven's own door. 
And folds again its plume upon her breast. 

Ye, too, for whom her palaces arise, 
Whose Tyrian vestments sweep the kindred ground. 

Whose golden chalice Ivy-Bacchus dies. 

She, kindly Mother, liveth in your eyes, 
And no strange anguish may your lives astound. 

But ye, O pale lone watchers for the true. 
She knoweth not. In Her ye have not found 

Place for your stricken head, wet with the mid- 
night dew. 



188 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



IX. HSLOISE TO ABELAHD. 

Must I not love thee 1 when the heart would leap 
With all its stirring pulses unto thee, 
Must it be stayed ] — is not the spirit free 1 

Can human bonds or bars its essence keep ? 

Or drugs and banes hold love in deathful sleep 1 
Love thee I must — yet I content will be, 
Like the pale victim, who, on bended knee, 

Presents the chalice which his blood must steep, 
And prostrate on the altar tails to die : 

So let me kneel — a guiltless votary sink — 

Prayer on my lip, and love within my heart: 
Thus from these willing ej'es recede the sky — 

Thus let these sighs my ebbing hfe-blood drink, 
May I but love thee still, but feel how dear thou art ! 



X. nElOISE TO ABEIAUD, (CONTINUED.) 

Wet shouldst thou hold thy tenderness aside 
From all thy lavishment of other gifts 1 
As if thou wouldst resort to means and shiils, 

Thy dearest, noblest attribute to hide 

From her, thy soul's sequestered, nun-made bride 1 
Thou hast enshrined her, like the star that drifts 
Alone in space — the worshipper who lifts 

His adoration, stayeth not the tide [thou 1 

Of his full heart — ah ! wherefore then shouldst 

We do our natures unto those attune. 

Most prodigd of greatness — and we feel 
That they do us with nobleness endow. 
As did the lavish moon Endymion : [ous zeal 1 

Then wherefore starve the heart with thrift of jeal- 



XI. DESPOSBEIfCT. 

Whex thou didst leave me Hope, why didst thou 
In place of thy sweet presence, leave Despair, [not, 
With her grim visage and disordered hair 1 

The past, the future, then had been forgot — 

The soul, concentred on its blasted lot, 
Had rested mute and desolate of care — ■ 
Had ceased to question where its treasures were. 

And roamed no more the melancholy spot : 
But now, too much remembering of the past ; 

So huge the weight of gloom around me spread, 
That I, like one within a charnel cast. 

Hear but the dirges ringing for the dead — 
Feel all the pangs of life, and thought, and breath. 
Yet walk I all the time with hand in hand of Death. 



XII. LOVE. 

TiiEHE may be death or peril — grief and shame — 
Cold, hollow human bonds ; and stony walls. 
And stonier hearts ; and solemn backwood calls, 

Heard in the midnight silence, when our name 

< lomes to the startled ear in cadenced blame : 
Friends may fall, as the dried leaf in autumn falls : 
We, in blanched moonlight stand, in desolate halls. 

Hearing dead branches grate the window frame, 
Under the pressure of the winter wind — 

"YetLove will dare all these, and more: ah! more — 
Outlive the changf d look, wrench back despair, 
And in his dim, deserted chambers find 

The wherewithal to comfort — to restore — [there. 
God's manna find left by Archangel footprmts 



XIII. "LOOK NOT BEHIND THEE. 

Meseemed, as I did walk a crystal wall. 
Translucent in the hue of rosy morn. 
And saw Eurydice, from Orpheus torn, 

Lift her white brow from out its heavy pall. 

With sweet lips echoing his melodious call, 
And following him, love-led and music-borne ; 
A sharp and broken cry — and she was gone : 

Thou fairest gi'ief — thou saddest type of all 
Our sorrowing kind, oh, lost Eurydice ! 

Thy deathful cry thrilled in mine every vein, 
When Orpheus turned him back, thus losing thee : 

His broken lute and melancholy plain 
All time prolongs — the still unceasing flow 
Of unavailing grief and a regretfid wo. 



XIV. CHARITY, IN DESPAIR OF JUSTICE. 

OuTWEAHiED with the littleness and spite — 
The falsehood and the treachery of men, 
I cried, " Give me but justice" — thinking then 

I meekly craved a common boon, which might 

Most easily be granted : — soon the light 
Of deeper truth grew on my wandering ken, 
(Escaped the baneful damps of stagnant fen,) 

And then I saw that, in my pride bedight, 
I claimed from weak-eyed man the gift of Heaven : 

God's own gi'eat vested right ! — and I grew calm, 
With folded hands, hke stone to Patience given, 

And pityings of meek love-distilling balm — 
And now I wait in hopeful trust to be 
All known to God, and ask of man sweet charity. 



XT. THE GREAT AIM. 

Earth beareth many pangs of guilt and wrong, 
Hunger, and chains, and nakedness, all cry 
From out the ground to Him whose searching eye 

Sees blood, like slinking serpents, steal along 

The dusty way, rank grass, and flowers among 
His the dread voice," Where is thy brother 1 " Why 

Sit we here, weaving our common griefs to song. 
When that eternal call forth bids us fly 

From self, and wake to human good 1 — the near, 
The humble it may be, yet God-appointed : 

If greatly girded, go — unknowing fear — 
With solemn trust, thou missioned and anointed. 

Oh, glorious task ! made free from petty strife. 

Thy Truth become an Act — thy Aspiration, Life. 



XVr. MIDNIGHT. 

Afar in this deep dell, by the seashore, 
So, resteth all things from the summer heat, 
That I the Naiads hear from limber feet 

Let fall the crystal as in days of yore : 

Old sea-gods lean upon the rock, and pour 
The waves adown ; the light-wii'jged zephyrs greet 
The tittering nymphs, that fi-om their green retreat 

With pearl-shells play and listen to their roar : 
Endymion sure on yonder headland sleeps, 

Where Dian's veil floats out a silver sheen — 
And large-eyed Pan amid the lotus peeps, 

Where gleams an ivory arm the leaves between, 
Nor stirs a restless hoof, lest his big heart, 
O'erfilled with love, should slumbering Echo start. 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



189 



XVII. JEALOUSY. 

Alas ! for he who loves too oft may be 

Like one who hath a precious treasure sealed, 
Whereto another hath obtained the Iiey : 

And he, poor soul ! who there his all concealed, 
Lives blindly on, nor knows that mite by mite 

It dwindleth from his grasp ; or if a thought 
That something hath been lost his mind affi'ight, 
. He puts it by as evil fancy wrought. 
Yet will there sometimes come a ghostly dread. 

From which the soul recoils ; but ho will sleep — 
Ay, sleep — and when he wakes, all, all is fled. 

Thus we may " garner up" om' hearts, and keep 
A more than human trust, and yet be left 
Despoiled of all — of hope, of faith, of love bereft! 



ECCE HOMO. 

THE WORSHIP AND THE WAY. 

Wheue the great woods theirduskyshadowsspread. 

Where the cold mountain-top in silence stood — 
What time the stars hung darkling overhead. 

Or came the red sun forth a beaming god. 
There, dimly groping, yet for truth athirst. 
Before the heavenly hosts in worship first, 

Ecce Homo ! 
The sylvan god hid in the rude, worn stone. 

The fire with wreathsof smoke to heaven ascending 
From out the consecrated dell, ai'e gone ; 

The Parsee on the mount no more is bending. 
But in a shapely temple, with the rites 
Of priest, and victim, and the burning lights, 

Ecce Homo ! 
Ah, struggling soul ! crushed and impeded, yet 

In form alone thou couldst not rest content ; 
These were but sj'mbols : thou couldst not forget 

Truth dwells within the veil, wliich must be rent ; 
And once again, mid earthquakes, doubt, and dread, 
And darkness o'er the earth, and o'er all worship 

spread — Ecce Homo ! 

Where hath the lowly been, to point the path 

To all the strugglers for the good and true 1 
In peril and in scorn from earthborn wrath. 

His locks all covered with the midnight dew — - 
The sweat of blood, the agony, the prayer — 
Oh, dark Gethsemane, behold him there ! 

Ecce Homo ! 
Wayworn with toil, and sorrowful of heart. 

Amid earth's multitude despised and poor. 
Who, save their trust in God, have httle art — 

Their strength the strength that teaches to endure : 
To comfort such, and in the outcast's ear 
Great words to whisper of consoling cheer — 

Ecce Homo ! 
V\'here is the Priest, and where the altar now 1 

Where is the recking blood, and victim slain 1 
Tranquil is upward raised a heavenlj' brow — 

" Do this in love until I come again" — 
And mystic wine poureil forth, and lowly bread. 
Earth's best and common gifts before him spread, 

Ecce Homo ! 
Not as the martyr dies — with the great stamp 

Of Truth upon his brow, him to uphold ; 
But o'er the suffering forehead, cold and damp. 



The record of imposture three times told — 
The outcast and the felon side by side — 
" Without the walls," where all men may deride- 

Ecce Homo ! 
Thou faintuig bearer of the thorn and cross. 

Despised, rejected of thy brother here — 
Sighing for lack of bread — the wayside moss 

Thine only pillow — cast aside thy fear ! 
Fill up thy human heart unto the brim — • 
Let the thorn pierce thee, as it pierced Him — 

Ecce Homo ! 



ODE TO SAPPHO. 

Bright, glowing Sappho ! child of love and song ! 

Adown the blueness of long-distant years 
Beams forth thy glorious shape, and steals along 
Thy melting tones, beguiling us to tears. 
Thou priestess of great hearts, 

Thrilled with the secret fire 
By which a god imparts 
The anguish of desire — 
For meaner souls be mean content — 
Thine was a higher element. 
Over Leucadia's rock thou leanest yet. 

With thy wild song, and all thy locks outspread ; 
The stars are ui thine eyes, the moon hath set — 
The night dew falls upon thy radiant head ; 
And thy resounding lyre — 
Ah ! not so wildly sway ; 
Thy soulful lips inspire 
And steal our hearts away ! 
Swanlike and beautiful, thy dirge 
Still moans along the .iEgean surge. 
No unrequited love filled thy lone heart. 
But thine infinitude did on thee weigh, 
And all the wildness of despair impart. 
Stealing the down from Hope's own wmg away. 
Couldst thou not suffer on. 
Bearing the direful pang, 
While thy melodious tone 
Through wondering cities rang 1 
Couldst thou not bear thy godlike grief ! 
In godlike utterance find relief! 
Devotion, fervor, might upon thee wait; 

But what were these to thine 1 all cold and chill. 
And left thy burning heart but desolate ; 
Thy wondrous beauty with despair might fill 
The worshipper who bent 

Entranced at thy feet : 
Too affluent the dower lent 
Where song and beauty meet ! 
Consumed by a Promethean fire 
Wert thou, O daughter of the lyre ! 
Alone, above Leucadia's vpave art thou, 
Most beautiful, most gifted, yet alone ! 
Ah ! what to thee the crown fiom Pindar's brow ? 
What the loud plaudit and the garlands thrown 
By the enraptured throng. 

When thou in matchless grace 
Didst move with lyre and song. 
And monarchs gave thee place 1 
What hast thou left, proud one ! what token 1 
Alas ! a lyre and heart — both broken ! 



190 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



LOVE DEAD. 

The lady sent bim an image of Cupid, one wins veiling lii9 face. He 
was pleased thereat, tliinking it to be Love sFeeping, and betokened 
the tenderness of tjie sentiment. He iool^ed again, and saw it was 
Love dead, and laid upon his bier. 

This morn with trembling I awoke, 
Just as the dawn my slumber broke : 

Flapping came a heavy wing sounding pinions o'er 
my head, 

Beating down the blessed air with a weight of chil- 
ling dread ; 
Felt I then the presence of a doom 
That an Evil occupied the room : 
And I dared not round the bower, 

Chilly in the grayish dawning — 
Dared not face the evil power, 

With its voice of inward warning. 
Vain with weakness we may palter — 
Vainly may the fond heart falter : 

Came there then upon my soul, dropping down 
like leaden weight, 

Burning pang or freezing pang, whicli I know not, 
'twas so great! 
Life hath its moments black unnumbered, 
I knew not if mine eyes had slumbered. 
Yet I little thought such pain 
Ever to have known again : 
Love dies, too, when Faith is dead — 
Yesternight Faith perished ! 
I knew that Love could never change — 
That Love should die seems yet more strange ; 

Lifting up the downy veil, screening Love within 
my heart. 

Beating there as beat my pulse, moving like my- 
self a part — 
I had kept him cherished there so deep, 
Heart-rocked kept him in his balmy sleep, 
That till now I never knew 
How his fibres round me grew — 
Could not know how deep the sorrow 
Where Hope bringeth no to-morrow. 
I struggled, knowing we must part ; 
I grieved to lift him fi-om my heart: 

Grieving much and struggling much, forth I brought 
him sorrowing ; 

Drooping hung his fainting head, all adown his 
dainty wing ! 
Shrieked I with a wild and dark surprise. 
For I saw the marble in Love's eyes ; 
Yet I hoped his soul would wait 
As he ofi had waited there, 
Hovering, though at heaven's gate — 
Could he leave me to despair 1 
Unfolded they the crystal door, 
Where Love shall languish never more. 

Weeping Love, thy days are o'er. Lo ! I lay thee 
on thy bier. 

Wiping thus from thy dead cheek every Testige of 
a tear. 
Love has perished : hist, hist, how they tell, 
Beating pulse of mine, his funeral knell ! 
Love is dead — ay, dead and gone ! 
Why should I be living on 1 — 
Why be in this chamber sitting. 
With but phantoms round me flitting f 



STANZAS. 

I p-iss before them cold and lone ; 

I ask no smile, I claim no tear ; 
And like some chiselled form of stone, 

Doomed none save mocking words to hear. 
To meet no eyes with Love's own ray, 

No touch that might the life-pulse wake, 
No tone emotion to betray. 

No self forgotten for its sake ! 

So pass they all, and it is well ! 

I would not such should read the mind 
Where hidden tenderness may dwell, 

Like gem in icy cave confined ; 
I would not every eye should read 

What one alone should ever know — 
One, only one, by Fate decreed 

To bid these icy fetters ilow ! 

They deem that changeful, struggling still, 

For that nor time nor earth can give ; 
Misled by Fancy's aimless will, 

I in the cold ideal live. 
Oh, it is well ! — thence holier far 

Is all I cherish thus apart — 
Pure as the brightness of a star. 

Deep as the foimtains of the heart ! 



ENDURANCE. 

" She turned to liim sorrowfully, 3.iying, ' Thou art free 1' Then first 
did he feel how deep is the bondage of love." 

I HAVE loosed every bond from thy uneasy heart, 
Have given thee back every pledge that was dear ; 

I have bidden thee go, yet thou wilt not depart — • 
I have prompted away, yet still thou art here. 

I knew that thy fi-eedom would be but in vain, 
Thy bondage the same, though absent the token : 

The chain may be reft, yet the scar will remain ; 
The weight will be felt, though the links are all 
broken. 

I shed not a tear when I bade thee depart — 

My lip curled with pride, but nothing with scorn ; 
If the pang or the aching were felt at the heart. 

Thou couldst not divine that it nourished the 
thorn. 
I dreamed not of comfort, I pra3'ed not for bliss ; 

In loving I knew was the wreck of my life : 
In silence I bowed and asked but for this — 

Thou ever the same in my darkness and strife ! 

The prayer hath been mocked, it is well that we part ; 

Yet it grieves me a will so unfettered as thine 
Should wrestle in vain with the bonds of the heart, 

A captive unwilling in jesses of mine. 

I would send thee away with fetterless wing. 
With eye that nor dimness nor sorrow hath known ; 

The fi'ee airs of heaven around thee should sing. 
And I bear the shaft and the anguish alone. 

I have learned to endure, I have hugged my despair, 
I scourge back the madness that else would invade ; 

On my brain falls the drop after drop, yet I bear. 
Lest thou shouldst discover the wreck thou hast 
made! 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



19 



MINISTERING SPIRITS. 

White-winged angels meet the child 

On the vestibule of life, 
And they offer to his lips 

All that cup of mingled strife — 
Mingled drops of smiles and tears, 
Human hopes, and human fears, 
Joy and sorrow, love and wo, 
Which the future heart must know. 

Sad the smile the spirits wear. 
Sad the fanning of their wings. 

As in their exceeding love 

Each a cup of promise hrings : 

In the coming strife and care. 

They have promised to be there ; 

Bowed by weariness or grief. 

They will minister relief. 

Lady, could the infant look 

In that deep and bitter cup, 
All its hidden perils know. 

Would it quaff life's waters up 1 
Lady, yes — for in the vase 
Upward beams an angel face ; 
Deep and anguished though the sigh, 
There is comfort lurking nigh — 
Times of joy, and times of wo, 
Each an angel-presence know. 



THE RECALL, OR SOUL MELODY. 

Nor dulcimer nor harp shall breathe 

Their melody for me ; 
Within my secret soul be wrought 

A holier minstrelsy ! 
Descend into thy depths, oh soul ! 
And every sense ui me control. 

Thou hast no voice for outward mirth, 

Whose purer strains arise 
From those that steal from crystal gates, 

The hymnings of the skies ; 
And well may earth's cold jarrings cease. 
When such have soothed thee unto peace. 

Within thy secret chamber rest. 

And back each sense recall, 
That seeketh mid the tranquil stars 

Where melody shall fall ; 
Call home the wanderer from the vale, 
From mountain and the moonlight pale. 

Within the leafy wood, the sound 

Of dropping rain may ring. 
Which, rolling from the trembling leaf, 

Falls on the sparrow's wing ; 
And music round the waking flower 
May breathe in every star-lit bower : 

Yet, come away ! nor stay to hear 

The breathings of a voice 
Whose subtle tones awake a thrill 

To make thee to rejoice. 
And vibrate on the Ustening ear 
Too deep, too earnest — ah, too dear. 
Yes, come away, and inward turn 

Each thought and every sense. 



For sorrow lingers from without — 
Thou canst not charm it thence ; 
But all attuned the soul may be, 
Unto a deathless melody. 



THE ■WATER. 

How beautiful the water is ! 

Didst ever think of it. 
When down it tumbles from the skies, 

As in a merry fit ? 
It jostles, ringing as it falls. 

On all that's in its way — 
I hear it dancing on the roof. 

Like some wild thing at play. 

'T is rushing now adown the spout. 

And gushing out below. 
Half frantic in its joyousness. 

And wild in eager flow. 
The earth is dried and parched with heat, 

And it hath longed to be 
Released firom out the selfish cloud, 

To cool the thirsty tree. 

It washes, rather rudely too. 

The flow'rets simple grace. 
As if to chide the pretty thing 

For dust upon its face : 
It showers the tree till every leaf 

Is free from dust or stain. 
Then waits till leaf and branch are stilled, 

And showers them o'er again. 

Drop after drop is tinkling down. 

To kiss the stijTing brook. 
The water dimples firom beneath 

With its own joyous look : 
And then the kindred drops embrace. 

And singing on they go, 
To dance beneath the willow tree. 

And glad the vale below. 

How beautiful the water is ! 

It loves to come at night. 
To make us wonder in the morn 

To find the earth so bright — 
To see a youthful gloss is spread 

On every shrub and tree. 
And flowerets breathing on the air 

Their odors pure and free. 

A dainty thing the water is — 

It loves the blossom's cup. 
To nestle mid the odors there. 

And fill the petals up ; 
It hangs ^ts gems on every leaf. 

Like d\jmonds in the sun; 
And then the water wins the smile 

The floweret should have won. 

How beautifnl the water is ! 

To me 'tis wondrous fair — 
JVo spot can ever lonely be, 

If water sparkle there ; 
It hath a thousand tongues of mirth. 

Of grandeur, or delight. 
And every heart is gladder made 

When water greets the sight. 



192 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



THE BROOK. 

" Whitseh away, thou meny Brook, 

Whither away so fast, 
With dainty feet through the meadow green, 

And a smile as you hurry past?" 
The Brook leaped on in idle mirth, 

And dimpled with saucy glee ; 
The daisy kissed in lovingness, 

And made with the willow free. 

I heard its laugh adown the glen. 

And over the rocky steep. 
Away where the old tree's roots were bare 

In the waters dark and deep ; 
The sunshine flashed upon its face. 

And played with flickering leaf — 
Well pleased to dally in its path, 

Though the tarrying were brief. 

" Now stay thy feet, oh restless one. 

Where droops the spreading tree. 
And let thy liquid voice reveal 

Thy story unto me." 
The flashing pebbles lightly rung, 

As the gushing music fell, 
The chiming music of the brook, 

From out the woody dell. 

" My mountain home was bleak and high, 

A rugged spot and drear, 
"With searching wind and raging storm. 

And moonlight cold and clear. 
I longed for a greeting cheery as mine, 

For a fond and answering look 
But none were in that solitude 

To bless the little brook. 

" The blended hum of pleasant sounds 

Came up from the vale below, 
And I wished that mine were a lowly lot. 

To lapse, and sing as I go ; 
That gentle things, with loving eyes. 

Along my path should glide, 
And blossoms in their loveliness 

Come nestling to my side. 

" I leaped me down.: my rainbow robe 

Hung shivering to the sight, 
And the thrill of freedom gave to me 

New impulse of delight. 
A joyous welcome the sunshine gave. 

The bird and the swaying tree ; 
The spear-Uke grass and blossom start 

With joy at sight of me. 

" The swallow comes with its bit of clay, 

When the busy Spring is here. 
And twittering bears the moistened gift 

A nest on the eaves to rear ; 
The twinkling feet of flock and herd 

Have trodden a path to me, 
And the fox and the squirrel come to drmk 

In the shade of the aldei-tree. 

" The sunburnt child, with its rounded foot, 

Comes hither with me to play. 
And I feel the thrill of his lightsome heart 

As he dashes the merry spray. 



I turn the mill with answering glee, 
As the merry spokes go round, 

And the gray rock takes the echo up, 
Rejoicing in the sound. 

" The old man bathes his scattered locks, 

And drops me a silent tear — 
For he sees a wrinkled, careworn face 

Look up fi'om the waters clear. 
Then I sing in his ear the very song 

He heard in years gone by ; 
The old man's heart is glad again, 

And a joy lights up his eye." 

Enough, enough, thou homily brook ! 

I '11 treasure thy teachings well. 
And I will yield a heartfelt tear 

Thy crystal drops to swell ; 
Will bear like thee a kindly love 

For the lowly things of earth. 
Remembering still that high and pure 

Is the home of the spirit's birth. 



THE COUNTaY MAIDEN. 

I had ratlier liave one kisse, 
Cliilde waters of tliy moutb, 
Tban I woul Je have Cheshire and Lancashire boUie 
That lye by north and south.— Old Ballad. 

I cAMi: to thee i:n workday dress 

And hair but plainly kempt, 
For life is not all holyday, 

From toil and care exempt ; 

I met thee oft with glowing cheek — 

Thus love its tale will tell ; 
Though oft its after paleness told 

Of hidden grief as well. 

Mine eyes that drooped beneath thy glance 

To hide their sense of bliss. 
Let fall too oft the tears that tell 

Of secret tenderness. 

I sought for no bewildering lure 

Thy senses to beguile. 
But checked the woman-playfulness. 

The witching tone and smile. 

With household look and household word, 

And frank as maidens meet, 
I dared with earnest, homely truth, 

Thy manliness to greet. 

For oh ! so much of truth was mine. 

So much of love beside, 
I wished in simple maidenhood 

To be thy chosen bride. 

Alas ! the russet robe no more 

Of humble life may tell. 
And thou dost say the velvet gear 

Becomes my beauty well. 

'Twas thy dear hand upon my brow 
That bound each sparkling gem. 

But dearer far its slightest touch 
Than all the wealth of them. 

Ob ! tell me not of gorgeous robes, 
Nor bind the jewel there ; 




I 'rL 



ELIZABETH OAKES-SMITH. 



193 



And tell me not with those cold eyes 

That I am wondrous fair. 
I will not chide, I will not blame, 

And yet the thought is here, 
The thought so fraught with bitterness — 

It yieldeth me no tear. 

I gave thee tenderness too deep — 

Too deep for aught but tears ; 
And thou wouldst teach the world's cold rule, 

Which learned, the heart but seres. 

I gave thee all the soul's deep trust — 

Its truth by sorrow tried ; 
Nay, start not thou ! what hast thou given 1 

Alas ! 't is but thy pride. 

Give back, give back the tenderness 

That blessed my simple love, 
And call me, as in those dear days, 

Thine own, thy gentle dove ! 



THE APRIL RAIN. 

The April rain — the April rain — 

I hear the pleasant sound ; 
Now soft and still, like little dew. 

Now drenching all the ground. 
Pray tell me why an April shower 

Is pleasanter to see 
Than falling drops of other rain 1 

I 'm sure it is to me. 

I wonder if 'tis really so — 

Or only hope the while, 
That tells of sweUing buds and flowers, 

And Summer's coming smile. 
Whate'er it is, the April shower 

Makes me a child again ; 
I feel a rush of youthful blood 

Come with the April rain. 

And sure, were I a Uttle bulb 

Within the darksome ground, 
I should love to hear the April rain 

So gently falling round ; 
Or any tiny flower were I, 

By Nature swaddled up, 
How pleasantly the April shower 

Would bathe my hidden cup ! 

The small brown seed, that rattled down 

On the cold autumnal earth. 
Is bursting from its cerements forth, 

Rejoicing in its birth. 
The slender spears of pale green grass 

Are smiling in the light, 
The clover opes its folded leaves 

As if it felt delight. 

The robin sings on the leafless tree, 

And upward turns his eye. 
As loving much to see the drops 

Come filtering from the sky ; 
No doubt he longs the bright green leaves 

About his home to see. 
And feel the swaying summer winds 

Play in the full-robed tree. 



The cottage door is open wide. 

And cheerful sounds are heard , 
The young girl sings at the merry wheel 

A song like the wilding bird ; 
The creeping child by the old, woni sill 

Peers out with winking eye. 
And his ringlets rubs with chubby hand, 

As the drops come pattering by. 

With bounding heart beneath the sky, 

The truant boy is out. 
And hoop and ball are darting by 

With many a merry shout. 
Ay, sport away, ye joyous throng — • 

For yours is the April day ; 
I love to see your spirits dance 

In your pure and healthful play. 



ATHEISM. 

FAITH. 

Beware of doubt — faith is the subtle chain 

Which binds us to the Infinite : the voice 
Of a deep life within, that will remain 

Until we crowd it thence. We may rejoice 
With an exceeding joy, and make our life, 

Ay, this external life, become a part 
Of that which is within, o'erwrought and rife 

With faith, that childlike blessedness of heart.. 
The order and the harmony inborn 

With a perpetual hymning crown our way. 
Till callousness, and selfishness, and scorn, [play. 

Shall pass as clouds where scatheless lightnings 
Cling to thy faith — 't is higher than the thought 
That questions of thy faith, the cold external doubt 

BEASOir. 

The Infinite speaks in our silent hearts, 

And draws our being to himself, as deep 
Calleth unto deep. He, who all thought imparts, 

Demands the pledge, the bond of soul to keep ; 
But reason, wandering from its fount afar. 

And stooping downward, breaks the subtle chain 
That binds it to itself, like star to star. 

And sun to sun, upward to God again : 
Doubt, once confirmed, tolls the dead spirit's knell, 

And man is but a clod of earth, to die 
Like the poor beast that in his shambles fell — 

More miserable doom than that, to lie 
In trembling torture, like believing ghosts, [Hosts. 
Who, though divorced from good, bow to the Lord of 

ANNIHILATION. 

Doubt, cypress crowned, upon a ruined arch 

Amid the shapely temple overthrown. 
Exultant, stays at length her onward march: 

Her victim, all with earthliness o'ergrown, 
Hath sunk himself to earth to perish there ; 

His thoughts are outward, all his love a blight, 
Dying, deluding, are his hopes, though fair — 

And death, the spirit's everlasting night. 
Thus, midnight travellers, on some mountain steep, 

Hear far above the avalanche boom down. 
Starting the glacier echoes from their sleep, 

And lost in glens to human foot unknown — 
The death-plunge of the lost come to their ear, 
And silence claims again her region cold and drear. 



194 ELIZABETH 


OAKES-SMITH. 


LET ME BE A FANTASY. 


EROS AND ANTEROS. 


Like the faint breathing of a distant lute 


'Tis said sweet Psyche gazed one night 


Heard in the hush of evening still and low, 


On Cupid's sleeping face — . 


For which we lingering listen, though 'tis mute, 


Gazed in her fondness on the wight 


I would be unto thee, and nothing moe — 


In his unstudied grace : 


Oh, nothing moe 


But he, bewildered by the glare 


Or like the wind-harp trembhng to its pain 


Of light at such a time. 


With music-joy, which must perforce touch wo 


Fled from the side of Psyche there 


Ere it shall sing itself to sleep again. 


As from a thing of crime. 


So I would pass to thee, and be no moe — 


Ay, weak the fable — false the ground — 


A breath, no moe ! 


Sweet Psyche veiled her face — 


Like lustre of a stone, that wakens thought 


Well knowing Love, if ever found, 


Pure as the cold, far-gleaming mountain snow — 


Will never leave his place. 


Like water to its crystal beauty wrought — 


Unfound as yet, and weary grown, 


Like all sweet Fancy dreams, but nothing moe — 


She had mistook another ; 


A dream, no moe ! 


'T was but Love's semblance she had found — 


Like gleams of better worlds and better truth. 


Not Eros, but his brother ! 


Which our lone hours of aspiration know. 




I would renew to thee the dew of youth — • 


« 


Touch thy good-angel wing — oh, nothing moe — 
Oh, nothing moe ! 


THE POET. 




NON VOX SED VOTUM. 

It 13 the belief of the vulgar that when the nightingale sings, she leans 
her bren^t upon a thorn. 


STRENGTH FROM THE HILLS. 


Come up unto the hills — thy strength is there. 


Siiro, sing — Poet, sing ! 


Oh, thou hast tarried long, 


With the thorn beneath thy breast, 


Too long, amid the bowers and blossoms fair, 


Robbing thee of all thy rest ; 


With notes of summer song. 


Hidden thorn for ever thine. 


Why dost thou tarry there 1 what though the bird 


Therefore dost thou sit and twine 


Pipes matin m the vale — 


Lays of sorrowing — 


The plough-boy whistles to the loitering herd. 


Lays that wake a mighty gladness. 


As the red daylights fail — 


Spite of all their mournful sadness. 


Yet come unto the hills, the old strong hills, 


Sing, sing — Poet sing ! 


And leave the stagnant plain ; 


It doth ease thee of thy sorrow — 


Come to the gushing of the newborn rills, 


" Darkling" singing till the morrow ; 


As sing they to the main ; 


Never weary of thy trust. 


And thou with denizens of power shalt dwell. 


Hoping, loving as thou must. 


Beyond demeaning care ; 


Let thy music ring ; 


Composed upon his rock, mid storm and fell, 


Noble cheer it doth impart, 


The eagle shall be there. 


Strength of will and strength of heart. 


Come up unto the hills : the shattered tree 


Sing, sing — Poet, sing ! 


Still clings unto the rock. 


Thou art made a human voice ; 


And flingeth out his branches wild and free. 


Wherefore shouldst thou not rejoice 


To dare again the shock. 


That the tears of thy mute brother 


Come where no fear is known : the seabird's nest 


Bearing pangs he may not smother, 


On the old hemlock swings, 


Through thee are flowing — 


And thou shalt taste the gladness of unrest. 


For his dim, unuttered grief 


And mount upon thy wings. 


Tl-jrough thy song hath found relief! 


Come up unto the hills. The men of old. 


Sing, sing — Poet, sing ! 


They of undaunted wills, 


Join the music of the stars, 


Grew jubilant of heart, and strong, and bold, 


Wheeling on their sounding cars ; 


On the enduring hills — 


Each responsive in its place 


Where came the soundings of the sea afar, 


To the choral hymn of space — 


Borne upward to the ear. 


Lift, oh lift thy wing — 


And nearer grew the moon and midnight star, 


And the thorn beneath thy breast, 


And God himself more near. 


Though it pierce, shall give thee rest. 



E. C. KINNEY. 



This fine poet is the daughter of an old 
and respected merchant, Mr. David L. Dodge, 
who retired from business many years ago. 
She was born, and chiefly educated, in the 
city of New York, where most of her life 
has been passed, in the pursuit of favorite 
studies, and the intercourse of a large circle 
of friends. A few years ago she was mar- 
ried to Mr. William B. Kinney, of the New- 
ark Daily Advertiser, one of the most able, 
accomplished, and honorable of the men who 
preserve to joumalism its proper rank, in a 
republic, of the first of professions. With a 
modesty equal to her genius, and an adequate 
sense of their function, she never deemed her- 
self of the company of poets. Possessing in 
a remarkable degree the "fatal facility," she 
has written verse from childhood, but never 
with any of the usual incentives, except the 
desire of utterance, and the gratification of 
friends. The Spirit of Song, one of her latest 
pieces, is but a simple expression of her 
habitual feelings on the subject. The idea 



of publication always brought a sense of con- 
straint, and her early improvisations, pro- 
duced under this embarrassment, for the 
Knickerbocker, Graham's Magazine, and 
other periodicals, at " Cedar Brook," her fa- 
ther's country residence, in the vicinity of 
Newark, appeared under the name of Sted- 
man. One of her friends, whose opportuni- 
ties to know are as great as his acknowledged 
sagacity of criticism to judge, observes, in a 
letter to me, that " decidedly the most free, 
salient, and characteristic efiusions of her 
buoyant spirit, have been thrown ofi", cur- 
rente calarno, in correspondence and inter- 
course with her friends." 

It will gratify the reader, who can appre- 
ciate the delicacy and strength and melodi- 
ous cadences, of the illustrations of her abil- 
ities that are here quoted, to learn that Mrs. 
Kinney is turning her attention more and 
more to composition, and that she is medi- 
tating an elaborate poem, which will serve 
as the just measure of her powers. 



TO THE EAGLE. 

Impemat. bird ! that soarest to the sky, [way — 
Cleaving through clouds and storms thine upward 

Or, fixing steadfastly that dauntless eye. 
Dost face the great, effulgent god of day ! 

Proud monarch of the feathery tiibes of air ! 
My soul exulting marks thy bold career. 

Up, through the azme fields, to regions fair. 
Where bathed in light thy pinions disappear. 

Thou with the gods upon Olympus dwelt. 
The emblem and the favorite bird of Jove — 

And godlike power in thy broad wings hast felt 
Since first they spread o'er land and sea to rove : 

From Ida's top the Thunderer's piercing sight 
Flashed on the hosts which Ilium did defy ; 

So from thy eyry on the beetling height 
Shoot down the lightning-glances of thine eye ! 

From his Olympian throne Jove stooped to earth 
For ends inglorious in the god of gods ! 

Leaving the beauty of celestial birth. 
To rob Humanity's less fair abodes : 

Oh, passion more rapacious than divine, 
Tbat stole the peace of innocence away ! 

So, when descend those tireless wings of thine. 
They stoop to make defencelessness their prey. 



Lo ! where thou comest fi-om the realms afar ! 
Thy strong wings whir like some huge bellows' 
breath ; 

Swift falls thy fiery eyeball, like a star. 
And dark thy shadow as the pall of death ! 

But thou hast marked a tall and reverend tree, 
And now thy talons clinch yon leafless limb; 

Before thee stretch the sandy shore and sea. 
And sails, like ghosts, move in the distance dim. 

Fair is the scene ! Yet thy voracious eye 
Drinks not its beauty ; but with bloody glare 

Watches the wild fowl idly floating by. 
Or snow-white sea-gull winnowing the air : 

Oh, pitiless is thine unemng beak ! 
Quick as the wings of Thought thy pinions fall — 

Then bear their victim to the mountain-peak 
Where clamorous eaglets flutter at thy call. 

Seaward again thou turn'st to chase the storm, 
Where winds and waters furiously roar ! 

Above the doomed sliip thy boding form 
Is coming Fate's dark shadow cast before ! 

The billows that engulf man's sturdy frame 
As sport to thy careering pinions seem ; 

And though to sUence sinks the sailor's name, 
His end is told in thy relentless scream. 

195 



196 



E. C. KINNEY. 



Where the great cataract sends up to heaven 
Its sprayey incense in perpetual cloud, 

Thy wings in twain the sacred bow have riven, 
And onward sailed irreverently proud. 

Unflinching bird ! no frigid clime congeals 
The fervid blood that riots in thy veins ; 

No torrid sun thine upborne nature feels — 
The north, the south, alike are thy domains. 

Emblem of all that can endure or dare. 
Art thou, bold eagle, in thy hardihood ! 

Emblem of Freedom, when thou cleav 'st the air — 
Emblem of Tyranny, when bathed in blood ! 

Thou wert the genius of Rome's sanguine wars : 
Heroes have fought and freely bled for thee ; 

And here, above our glorious " stripes and stars," 
We hail thy signal wings of Liberty ! 

The poet sees in thee a type sublime 
Of his far-reaching, high-aspiring art ! 

His fancy seeks with thee each starry clime, 
And thou art on the signet of his heart. 

Be still the symbol of a spirit free. 
Imperial bird ! to unborn ages given — 

And to my soul, that it may soar like thee, 
Steadfastly looking in the eye of Heaven ! 



ODE: TO THE MOON. 

Mtbiads have sung thy praise. 
Fair Dian, virgin goddess of the skies ! 

And myriads will raise 
Their songs, while time yet onward flies. 
To thee, chaste prompter of the lover's sighs, 

And of the minstrel's lays ; 
But still exhaustless as a theme 
Shall be thy name 
While lives immortal Fame — 
As when, to people the first poet's dream. 
Thy inspiration came. 

None ever lived, or loved. 
Who hath not thine oblivious influence felt — 
As if a silver veil hid outward things, 
While some bright spirit's wings 
Mysteriously moved 
The world of fancies that within him dwelt. 
Regent of height, what is this charm in thee, 
That sways the human soul, like potent witchery t 

When first the infant learns to look on high — 
While twilight's drapery his heart appals — 
Thy full-orbed presence captivates his eye ; 
Or when, mid shadows grim upon the walls. 
Are sent thy pallid rays, 
'T is awe his bosom fills, 
And trembling joy that thrills 
His tiny frame, and fastens his young gaze : 
Thy spell is on that heart. 
And childhood may depart. 
But it shall gather strength with youthfiil days; 
For oft as thou, capricious moon, 
Shalt wax and wane, 
He — now perchance a lovesick swain — 
Will watch thee at night's stilly noon. 
Pouring Ms passion in an amorous strain : 



Or, with the mistress of his soul. 
Lighted by thy love-whispering beams, 

In some secluded garden sttoU, 
Bewildered in ambrosial dreams ; 
Nor once suspect, while his full pulses move, [love. 
That thou, whom tides obey, mayst turn the tide of 

The watcher on the deep. 
Though weary be his eye. 

Forgets even downy sleep, 
When thou art in the sky ; 
For with thine image on the silvery sea, 
A thousand forms of memory 

Whirl in a mazy dance ; 
And when he upward looks to thee, 

In thy far-reaching glance 
There is a sacred bond of sympathy 

'Twixt sea and land ; 

Yes, on his native strand 
That glance awakens kindred souls 

To kindred thought ; 
And though the deep between them rolls, 

Hearts are together brought ; 
While tears that fall from eyes at home, 

And those that wet the sailor's cheek, 
From the same holy fountains come, 

The same emotion speak. 

The watcher on the land. 
Who holds the burning hand 
Of one whom scorching fever wastes, 
Beholds thee, orient Moon, 
With reddened face expanded, in the east. 
Till superstition chills his breast, 

While tremulous he hastes 
To draw the curtains as thou joumeyest on ; 
But when the far-spent night 
Is streaked with dawning light. 
Again, to look on thee. 
He lifts the drapery, 
And hope divine now triumphs over fear. 

As in the zenith far, 
A pale, small orb thou dost appear, 
While eastward rises morn's resplendent star; 
And Fancy sees the parting soul ascend 
Where thy mild glories with the azure blend. 

Even on the face of Death thou lookest calm. 
Fair Dian, as when watchful thou didst keep 
Love's holy vigils o'er Endymion's sleep. 
Drinking the breath of youth's perpetual balm : 
■Thy beams are kissing now 
The icy brow 
Of many a youth in slumber deep. 

Who can not yield to thee 
The incense of Love's perfumed breath — 
For no response gives death. 
Ah, 'tis a fearful thing to see 
Thy lustre shine 
Upon " the human face divine," 
From which the spark Promethean has fled ! 
As when, oh, melancholy Moon, 
Thy light is shed 
Upon the marble cold 
Of that famed ruin old — 
The grand but silent Parthenon. 
Dian, enchantress of all hearts ! 



E. C. KINNEY. 



197 



While mine in song now worships thee, 
From thy far-reaching bow the silver darts 
Fall thick and fast on me. 

Oh, beautiful in light and shade 
By thee is this fair landscape made ! 
Gems sparkle on the river's breast, 
Now covered by an icy vest ; 
Upon the frozen hills 

A regal glory shines. 
And all the scene, as Fancy wills, 
Shifts into new designs : 
Yet night is still as Death's mibroken realms, 
And solemnly thy beams, wan orb, are cast 
Through thearchedbranches of these reverend elms. 
As though they through the gothic windows past 
Of some old abbey 9r cathedral vast. 
In awe my spirit kneels. 

And seems before a hallowed shrine ; 
Yet not the majesty of art it feels, 
But Nature's law divine — 
The presence of her mighty Architect, 

Who piled these pyramidic hills sublime, 
That stiil, fair Moon, thy radiance will reflect. 
And still defy the crumbling touch of Time ; 
Who built this temple of gigantic trees. 
Where Nature's worshippers repair 
To pray the heart's unuttered prayer — 
That veiled thought which the Omniscient sees. 
Oh, I could muse, and still adore 

Religious Night, and thee, her queen ! 
Till golden Phffibus should restore 

His splendor to the scene : 
But natural laws thy motions sway, 

And these must guide the poet's will ; 
Thus, while the soul ma}' tireless stray, 

This actual life must weary still : 
Then oh, inspirer of my song ! 

As close these eyes upon thy beams, 
Watching amid thy starry throng, 
Be thou the goddess of my dreams. 



THE SPIRIT OF SONG. 

Eters^al Fame ! thy great rewards, 

Throughout all time, shall be 
The right of those old master bards 

Of Greece and Italy ; 
And of fair Albion's favored isle. 
Where Poesy's celestial smile 

Hath shone for ages, gilding bright 
Her rocky cliffs and ancient towers. 
And cheering this New World of ours 

With a reflected hght. 
Yet, though there be no path untrod 

By that immortal race — 
Who walked with Nature as with God, 

And saw her face to face — 
No living truth by them unsung. 
No thought that hath not found a tongue 

In some strong lyre of olden time — 
Must every tuneful lute be still 
That may not give the world a thrill 

Of their great harp sublime 1 
Oh, not while beating hearts rejoice 

In music's simplest tone, 



And hear in Nature's every voice 

An echo to their own ! 
Not till these scorn the little rill 
That runs rejoicing from the hiU, 

Or the soft, melancholy glide 
Of some deep stream through glen and glade, 
Because 'tis not die thunder made 

By ocean's heaving tide ! 
The hallowed lihes of the field 

In glory are arrayed, 
And timid, blue-eyed "vdolets yield 

Their fragrance to the shade ; 
Nor do the wayside flowers conceal 
Those modest charms that sometimes steal 

Upon the weary traveller's eyes 
Like angels, spreading for his feet 
A carpet, filled with odors sweet. 

And decked with heavenly dyes. 

Thus let the affluent soul of Song — 

That all with flowers adorns — 
Strew life's uneven path along. 

And hide its thousand thorns : 
Oh, many a sad and weary heart. 
That treads a noiseless way apart, 

Has blessed the humble poet's name 
For fellowship, refined and free. 
In meek wild-flowers of poesy. 

That asked no higher fame ! 

And pleasant as the waterfall 

To one by deserts bound. 
Making the air all musical 

With cool, inviting sound — 
Is off; some unpretending strain 
Of rural song, to him whose brain 

Is fevered in the sordid strife 
That Avarice breeds 'twixt man and man, 
While moving on, in caravan. 

Across the sands of Life. 

Yet not for these alone he sings : 

The poet's breast is stirred 
As by the spirit that takes wings 

And carols in the bird ! 
He thinks not of a future name. 
Nor whence his inspiration came. 

Nor whither goes his warbled song : 
As Joy itself delights in joy, 
His soul finds life in its employ. 

And grows by utterance strong. 



THE aUAKERESS BRIDE. 

(AN EXTRACT.) 

The building was humble, yet sacred to One 
Who heeds the deep worship that utters no tone ; 
Whose presence is not to the temple confined. 
But dwells with the contrite and lowly of mind. 
'T was there all unveiled, save by modesty, stood 
The Quakeress bride in her pure satin hood ; 
Her charms unadorned by the gariand or gem. 
Yet fair as the hly just plucked from its stem. 
A tear glistened bright in her dark, shaded eye. 
And her bosom half uttered a tremulous sigh, 
As the hand she had pledged was confidingly given, 
And the low-murmured accents recorded in heaven. 



198 



E. C. KINNEY. 



SONNETS. 

I. CULTIVATION. 

Weeds grow unasked, and even some sweet flowers 
Spontaneous give their fragrance to the air, 
And bloom on hills, in vales, and everywhere — 

As shines the sun, or fall the summer showers — 
But wither while our Hps pronounce them fair ! 
Flowers of more worth repay alone the care. 

The nurture, and the hopes, of watchful hours ; 

While plants most cultured have most lasting pow- 
So, flowers of genius that will longest live, [ers. 

Spring not in MiTid's uncultivated soil. 

But are the birth of time, and mental toil, 
And all the culture Learning's hand can give : 

Fancies like wild flowers, in a night may grow ; 

Butthoughts are plants whose stately growth is slow. 



II. EJrCOUBAGEHIENT. 

When first peeps out from earth the modest vine, 

Asking but Uttle space to live and grow. 
How easily some step, without design. 

May crush the being from a thing so low ! 

But let the hand that doth delight to show 
Support to feebleness, the tendril twine 

Around some lattice-work, and "twill bestow 
Its thanks in fragrance, and with blossoms shine : 

And thus, when Genius first puts forth its shoot, 
So timid, that it scarce dare ask to live — ■ 

The tender germ, if ti-odden under foot. 

Shrinks back again to its undying root; 
While kindly training bids it upward strive, 
And to the future flowers immortal give. 



III. FADISG AUTUMN. 

Th' autumnal glories all have passed away ! 

The forest leaves no more in hectic red 
Give glowing tokens of their brief decay, 

But scattered lie, or rustle to the tread. 

Like whispcr'd warnings from the mouldering dead. 
The naked ti-ees stretch out their arms all day, 

And each bald hilltop lifts its reverend head 
As if for some new covering to pray. 

Come Winter, then, and spread thy robe of white 
Above the desolation of this scene , 

And when the sun with gems shall make it bright. 
Or, when its snowy folds by midnight's queen 

Are silvered o'er with a serener light. 
We'll cease to sigh for Summer's living green. 



TV. A WIXTER NIGHT. 

How calm, how solemn, how sublime the scene ! 
The moon in full-orbed gloiy sails above. 
And stars in myriads around her move ; 

Each looldng down with watchful eye serene 
On earth, which in a snowy shroud arrayed. 
And still, as in a dreamless sleep 'twere laid, 

Saddens the spirit with its deathlike mien : 
Yet doth it charm the eye — its gaze still hold ; 
Just as the face of one we loved, when cold. 

And pale, and lovely e'en in death, 'tis seen. 
Will fix the mourner's eye, though trembling fears 
Fill all his soul, and frequent fall his tears. 

Oh, I could watch, till morn should change the sight, 

This cold, this beautiful, ihis mournful winter night. 



T. TO THE GREEK SLAVE. 

Beautiful model of creative art ! 

My spirit feels the reverence for thee, 

That felt the ancients for a deity : 
And did the sculptor shape thee, part by part, 
Fair, as if whole from Genius' mighty heart 

Thou 'dst sprung, like Venus from thefoaming sea? 
Ah I not for show, in a disgraceful mart, 

Is that calm look of conscious purity ; 
Nor should unhallowed eye presume to steal 
A sensual glance, where holy minds would kneel, 

As to some goddess in her virgin youth. 
But who could shame in thy pure presence feel. 

Save those who, false themselves, must shrink, for- 

From the mild lustre of ungarnished truth 1 [sooth, 

TI. TO ARABELLA. 

There is a pathos in those azure eyes. 

Touching, and beautiful, and strange, fair child ! 

When the fringed lids upturn, such radiance mild 
Beams out as in some brimming lakelet lies, 
Which undisturbed reflects the cloudless skies : 

No tokens glitter there of passion wild, 
That into ecstasy with time shall rise ; 

But in the deep of those clear orbs are signs — 

Which Poesy's prophetic eye di\'ines — 
Of woman's love, enduring, undefiled ! 
If, like the lake at rest, through life we see 

Thy face reflect the heaven that in it shines. 
No idol to thy worshippers thou 'It be, 

For he will worship Heaven who worships thee ! 



THE WOODMAN. 

He shoulders his axe for the woods, and away 
Hies over the fields at the dawn of the day. 
And merrily whistles some tune as he goes. 
So heartily trudging along through the snows. 

His dog scents his track, and pursues to a mark, 
Now sending afar the shrill tones of his bark — 
Then answering the echo that comes back again 
Tluough the clear air of morn, over valley and plain. 

And now in the forest the woodman doth stand : 
His eye marks the victims to fall by his hand, 
While Irue to its aim is the ready axe found, [sound. 
And quick do its blows through the woodland re- 

The proud tree low bendeth its vigorous form, [storm; 
Whose freshness and strength have braved many a 
And the sturdy oak shakes that never trembled before 
Though the years of its glory outnumber threescore. 

They fall side by side — just as man in his prime 
Lies down with the locks that are whitened by tune : 
The ti-ees which are felled into ashes will Isurn, 
As man, by Death's blow, unto dust must return. 

But twilight approaches : the woodman and dog 
Come plodding together through snowdrift and bog ; 
The axe, again shouldered, its day's work hath done ; 
The woodman is hungry — the dog wants his bone. 

Oh, home is then sweet, and the evening repast ! 
But the brow of the woodman with thought is o'er- 
He is conning a truth to be tested by all — [cast : 
That man, like the trees of the forest, must fall. 



ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 



Mks. Ellet's father was Dr. William A. 
Luramis, a pupil and friead of Dr. Benjamin 
Rush, whom in person he strikingly resem- 
bled. He resided several years in Woodbu- 
ry, New Jersey ; but afterward, giving up the 
practice of his profession, removed to Sodus 
Bay, on Lake Ontario, in the state of New 
York, where he purchased lands and spent 
his fortune in improving them. He died ma- 
ny years ago, eminently respected for his abil- 
ities and honorable character. His second 
wife, the mother of Mrs. Ellet, was Sarah 
Maxwell, a daughter of John Maxwell, a rev- 
olutionary officer, and niece of General Wil- 
liam Maxwell, who served in the army with 
distinction from Braddock's campaign until 
near the close of the war of independence, 
when an unjust system of promotions in- 
duced him with many others to surrender 
his commission. 

Miss Lummis was married, when about 
seventeeJi years of age, to Dr. William H. 
Ellet, then professor of chymistry in Colum- 
bia College, in New York, and since one of 
the professors in the college at Columbia, in 
South Carolina, where she resided several 
years. 

Mrs. Ellet began to write for the maga- 
zines in 1833, and in the following year ap- 
peared her translation of Euphemia of Mes- 
sina, by Silvio Pellico. In the spring of 
1S35 her tragedy of Teresa Contarini was 
successfully represented in New York and 
in some of the western cities. It is founded 
on Nicolini's Antonio Foscarini, which illus- 
trates one of the darkest periods in Venetian 
history, when the decrees of the senate and 
the judgments of the inquisitors were made 
most subservient to private purposes. The 
play is of the classic school, and it is too de- 
ficient in action to retain a place upon the 
stage. In the autumn of the same year she 
published in Philadelphia a volume entitled 
Poems, Translated and Original. 

From this period until it ceased to be pub- 
lished, Mrs. Ellet was a frequent contributor 
to the American Quarterly Review, for which 
she wrote papers on Italian Tragedy, The 



Italian Lyric Poets, Lamartine's Poems, Hu- 
go's Dramas, The Troubadours, Andreini's 
Adam, (the work which suggested to Milton 
the idea of his Paradise Lost,) &c. 

In 1841 she published The Characters of 
Schiller, ananalysis and criticismof the prin- 
cipal persons in Schiller's plays, with trans- 
lated extracts, and an essay on Schiller's ge- 
nius. Her next work was Joanna of Sicily, 
a series of passages in the life of the queen 
of Naples, a blending of fact and fiction, with 
a coloring of the manners of the middle ages. 
This was followed by Country Rambles, a 
volume designed for juvenile readers, and de- 
scriptive of scenery in various parts of the 
United States. 

The last production of Mrs. Ellet, The 
Women of the American Revolution, in two 
volumes, was published in New York in 
the autumn of 1848. Her object was to il- 
lustrate the action and influence of her sex 
in the achievement of our national indepen- 
dence ; to exhibit something of the character 
and feeling of our heroic age, in the domestic 
side of the picture ; and with the assistance 
of a few gentlemen more familiar than her- 
self with our public and domestic experi- 
ence, she has made a valuable and interest- 
ing work. 

From time to time Mrs. Ellet has also pub- 
lished papers in the North American Review, 
the Southern Quarterly Review, and several 
of the monthly magazines, upon many sub- 
jects of literature, art, and history, which 
evince considerable scholarship and literary 
dexterity. 

The poems of Mrs. Ellet do not perhaps 
evince much of the inspiration of genius, nor 
have they the freshness which distinguishes 
much verse that is very inferior in execution ; 
but while we rarely perceive in them any- 
thmg that is striking, they, as well as her 
prose works, are uniformly respectable. The 
most creditable illustrations of her abilities 
seem to be her translations irom the French 
and Italian languages, in which she has oc- 
casionally been remarkably successful. 

Mrs. Ellet now resides in New York. 



200 



ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 



SIISaUEHANNAH. 

Softly the blended light of evening rests 
Upon thee, lovely stream ! Thy gentle tide, 
Picturing the gorgeous beauty of the sky, 
Onward, unbroken by the ruffling wind, 
Majestically flows. Oh, by thy side, 
Far from the tumults and the throng of men. 
And the vain cares that vex poor human life, 
'Twere happiness to dwell, alone with thee. 
And the wide, solemn grandeur of the scene. 
From thy green shores, the mountains that enclose 
In their vast sweep the beauties of the plain, 
Slowly receding, toward the skies ascend, 
Enrobed with clustering woods, o'er which the smile 
Of Autumn in his loveliness hath passed, 
Touching their foliage with his brilliant hues, 
And flinging o'er the lowliest leaf and shrub 
His golden livery. On the distant heights 
Soft clouds, earth-based, repose, and stretch afar 
Their burnished summits in the clear, blue heaven, 
Flooded with splendor, that the dazzled eye 
Turns drooping from the sight. Nature is here 
Like a throned sovereign, and thy voice doth tell. 
In music never silent, of her power. 
Nor are thy tones unanswered, where she builds 
Such monuments of regal sway. These vride, 
Untrodden forests eloquently speak. 
Whether the breath of summer stir their depths, 
Or the hoarse moaning of November's blast 
Sti-ip from the boughs their covering. All the air 
Is now instinct with life. The merry hum 
Of the returning bee, and the blithe song 
Of flutterhig bird, mocking the solitude. 
Swell upward ; and the play of dashing streams 
From the green mountain-side is faintly heard. 
The^wild swan swims the waters' azure breast 
With graceful sweep, or, startled, soars away. 
Cleaving with mounting wing the clear, bright air. 

Oh, in the boasted lands beyond the deep, 
Where Beauty hath a birthright, where each mound 
And mouldering ruin tells of ages past — 
And every breeze, as with a spirit's tone. 
Doth waft the voices of Oblivion back. 
Waking the soul to lofty memories. 
Is there a scene whose loveliness could fill 
The heart with peace more pure 1 Nor yet art thou, 
Proud stream ! without thy records — graven deep 
On yon eternal hills, which shall endure 
Long as their summits breast the wintry storm. 
Or smile in the warm sunshine. They have been 
The chroniclers of centuries gone by : 
Of a strange race, who trod perchance their sides. 
Ere these gray woods had sprouted from the earth 
Which now they shade. Here onward swept thy 

waves. 
When tones now silent mingled with their sound. 
And the wide shore was vocal with the song 
Of hunter chief, or lover's gentle strain. 
Those passed away — forgotten as they passed ; 
But holier recollections dwell with thee: 
Here hath immortal Freedom built her proud 
And solemn monuments. The mighty dust 
Of heroes in her cause of glory fallen, 
Hath mingled with the soil and hallowed it. 
Thy waters in their brilliant path have seen 



The desperate strife that won a rescued world — 
The deeds of men who live in grateful hearts. 
And hymned their requiem. Far beyond this vale. 
That sends to heaven its incense of lone flowers. 
Gay village spires ascend — and the glad voice 
Of industry is heard. So in the lapse 
Of future years these ancient woods shall bow 
Beneath the levelling axe — and man's abodes 
Displace their sylvan honors. They will pass 
In turn away ; yet, heedless of all change. 
Surviving all, thou still wilt murmur on, 
Lessoning the fleeting race that look on thee 
To mark the vrrecks of time, and read their doom. 



LAKE ONTARIO. 

Deep thoughts o'ershade my spirit while I gaze 

Upon the blue depths of thy mighty breast; 
Thy glassy face is bright with sunset rays. 

And thy far-stretching waters are at rest. 
Save the small wave that on thy margin plays, 

Lifting to summer airs its flashing crest : 
While the fleet hues across thy surface driven. 
Mingle afar in the embrace of heaven. 
Thy smile is glorious when the morning's spring 

Gives half its glowing beauty to the deep ; 
When the dusk swallow dips his drooping wing. 

And the gay winds that o'er thy bosom sweep 
Tribute from dewy woods and violets bring, 

Thy restless billows in their gifts to steep. 
Thou 't beautiful when evening moonbeams shine. 
And the soft hour of night and stars is thine. 
Thou hast thy tempests, too ; the lightnmg's home 

Is near thee, though unseen ; thy peaceful shore. 
When storms have lashed these waters into foam, 

Echoes full oft the peahng thunder's roar. 
Thou hast dark trophies : the unhonored tomb 

Of those now sought and wept on earth no more : 
Full many a goodly form, the loved and brave. 
Lies whelmed and still beneath thy sullen wave. 
The world was young with thee : this swelling flood 

As proudly swelled, as purely met the sky. 
When sound of Ufe roused not the ancient wood. 

Save the wild eagle's scream, or panther's cry : 
Here on this verdant bank the savage stood, 

And shook his dart and battle-axe on high. 
While hues of slaughter tinged thy billows blue, 
As deeper and more close the conflict grew. 

Here, too, at early morn, the hunter's song 
Was heard from wooded isle and grassy glade ; 

-^nd here, at eve, these clustered bowers among, 
The low, sweet carol of the Indian maid, 

Chiding the slumbering breeze and shadows long, 
That kept her lingering lover from the shade, 

While, scarcely seen, thy willing waters o'er, 

Sped the light bark that bore him to the shore. 

Those scenes are past. The spirit of changing years 
Has breathed on all around, save thee alone. 

More faintly the receding woodland hears 
Thy voice, once full and joyous as its own. 

Nations have gone from earth, nor trace appears 
To tell their tale — forgotten or unknown : 

Yet here, unchanged, untamed, thy waters lie. 

Azure, and clear, and boundless as the sky. 



ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 



201 



THE DELAWARE WATEE-GAP. 

OnR western land can boast no lovelier spot. 
The hills which in their ancient grandeur stand, 
Piled to the ftowning clouds, the bulwarks seem 
Of this wild scene, resolved that none but Heaven 
Shall look upon its beauty. Round their breast 
A curtained fringe depends, of golden mist. 
Touched by the slanting sunbeams; while below 
The silent river, with majestic sweep, 
Pursues his shadowed way — his glassy face 
Unbroken, save when stoops the lone wild swan 
To float in pride, or dip his ruffled wing. 
Talk ye of solitude 1 — It is not here. 
Nor silence. — Low, deep murmurs are abroad. 
Those towering hills hold converse with the sky 
That smiles upon their summits ; and the wind 
Which stirs their wooded sides, whispers of life, 
And bears the burden sweet from leaf to leaf. 
Bidding the stately forest-boughs look bright, 
And nod to greet liis coming ! And the brook. 
That with its silvery gleam comes ieapmg down 
From the hillside, has, too, a tale to tell ; 
The wild bird's music mingles with its chime ; 
And gay young flowers, that blossojn in its path, 
Send forth their perfume as an added gift. 
The river utters, too, a solemn voice. 
And tells of deeds long past, in ages gone. 
When not a sound was heard along his shores, 
Save the wild tread of savage feet, or shriek 
Of some expiring captive — and no bark 
E'er cleft his gloomy waters. Now, his waves 
Are vocal often with the hunter's song ; 
Now visit, in their glad and onward course. 
The abodes of happy men, gardens and fields, 
And cultured plains — stiU bearing, as they pass, 
Fertihty renewed and fresh delights. 

The time has been — so Indian legends say — • 
When here the mighty Delaware poured not 
His ancient waters tlirough, but turned aside 
Through yonder dell and washed those shaded vales. 
Then, too, these riven cliffs were one smooth hill. 
Which smiled in the warm sunbeams, and displayed 
The wealth of summer on its graceful slope. 
Thither the hunter-chieftains oft repaired 
To light their council-fires ; while its dim height, 
For ever veiled in mist, no mortal dared, 
'T is said, to scale ; save one white-haired old man. 
Who there held commune with the Indian's God, 
And thence brought down to men his high com- 
mands, 
Years passed away : the gifted seer had lived 
Beyond life's natural term, and bent no more 
His weary limbs to seek the mountain's summit. 
New tribes had filled the land, of fiercer mien. 
Who strove against each other. Blood and death 
Filled those green shades where all before was peace, 
And the stern warrior scalped his dying captive 
E'en on the precincts of that holy spot [mourned 
Where the Great Spirit had been. Some few, who 
The unnatural slaughter, urged the aged priest 
Again to seek the consecrated height. 
Succor from Heaven, and mercy to implore. 
They watched him from afar. He labored slowly 
High up the steep ascent, and vanished soon 



Behind the folded clouds, which clustered dark 
As the last hues of sunset passed away. 
The night fell heavily ; and soon were heard 
Low tones of thunder from the mountain-top, 
Muttering, and echoed from the distant hills 
In deep and solemn peal ; while lurid flashes 
Of lightning rent anon the gathering gloom. 
Then, wilder and more loud, a fearful crash 
Burst on the startled ear : the eai-th, convulsed, 
Groaned from its solid centi^e ; forests shook 
For leagues around ; and, by the sudden gleam 
Which flung a fitful radiance on the spot, 
A sight of dread was seen. The mount was rent 
From top to base ; and where so late had smiled 
Green boughs and blossoms, yawned a fi'ightful 

chasm. 
Filled with uraiatural darkness. From afar 
The distant roar of waters then was heard : 
They came, with gathering sweep, o'erwhelming all 
That checked their headlong course ; the rich maize 
The low-roofed hut, its sleeping inmates — all [field, 
Were swept in speedy, undistinguished ruin I 
Morn looked upon the desolated scene 
Of the Great Spirit's anger, and beheld 
Strange waters passing through the cloven rocks ; 
And men looked on in silence and in fear, 
And far removed their dwelUngs from the spot, 
Where now no more the hunter chased his prey. 
Or the war-whoop was heard. Thus years went on : 
Each trace of desolation vanished fast ; 
Those bare and blackened cliff's were overspread 
With fresh, green foliage, and the swelling earth 
Yielded her stores of flowers to deck their sides. 
The river passed majestically on 
Through his newchannel ; verdure graced his banks; 
The wild bird murmured sweetly as before 
In its beloved woods ; and naught remained, 
Save the wild tales which hoary chieftains told, 
To mai'k the change celestial vengeance wrought. 



EXTRACTS FROM TERESA CONTARINI. 



cold! 



INSENSIBILITr. 

My heart is senseless. It is cold — cold- 
Steeled in an apathy more deep than wo. 
Which even keen Thought can never pierce again. 
What nights of feverish unrest I've borne, 
AVhat days of weeping and of bitterness, 
When I have schooled me to a mocking calmness, 
While my heart ached within ! But all is past ! 
My spirit is a waste o'er which hath raged 
The desolating fire, to leave its trace 
In blackened ruins. I can feel no more ! 
Would that I could ! I 'd rather bear the gnawmg 
Of anguish, than this dull, dead, frozen void, 
In which all sense is buried. 



LOVE, I2T YOUTH AWD AGE. 

How doth Youth 
Wear his soft yoke ? More lightly than he wears 
The pageant plume, which every fickle wind 
Stirs at its will, to be thrown careless by. 
When he shall weary of its pride ! To youth 
Love is the shallow rill that mocks the sunshine, 
Wasting its strength in idle foam away : 



202 



ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 



To age, the river, silent, broad, and deep — 
Hiding the wealth of years within its breast — 
Baffling the vain eye that would read its depths — 
Broader and deeper growing, as the channel 
Of life wears on ! 



SODUS BAY. 

I BiEss thee, native shore ! 
Thy woodlands gay, and waters sparkling clear ! 

'T is like a dream once more 
The music of thy thousand waves to hear, 

As, murmuring up the sand. 
With kisses bright they lave the sloping land. 

The gorgeous sun looks down, 
Bathing thee gladly in his noontide ray ; 

And o'er thy headlands brown 
With loving light the tints of evening play : 

Thy whispering breezes fear 
To break the calm so softly hallowed here. 

Here, in her green domain, 
The stamp of Nature's sovereignty is found ; 

With scarce disputed reign 
She dwells in all the solitude around : 

And here she loves to wear 
The regal garb that suits a queen so fair. 

Full oft my heart hath yearned 
For thy sweet shades and vales of sunny rest ; 

Even as the swan returned, 
Stoops to repose upon thy a2ure breast, 

I greet each welcome spot 
Forsaken long — ^but ne'er, ah, ne'er forgot. 

'T was here that memory grow — [left; 
'T was here that childhood's hopes and cares were 

Its early freslmess, too — 
Ere droops the soul, of her best joys bereft : 

Where are they 1 — o'er the ti-ack 
Of cold years, I would call the wanderers back ! 

They must be with thee still : 
Thou art unchanged — as bright the sunbeams play: 

From not a tree or hill 
Hath time one hue of beauty snatched away 

Unchanged alike should be 
The blessed tilings so late resigned to thee. 

Give back, oh, smiling deep, 
The heart's fair sunshine, and the dreams of youth 

That in thy bosom sleep — 
Life's April mnocence, and trustful truth ! 

The tones that breathed of yore 
In thy lone murmurs, once again restore. 

Where have they vanished all 1 — 
Only the heedless winds in answer sigh ; 

Still rushing at thy call. 
With reckless sweep the streamlet flashes by ! 

And idle as the air, 
Or fleeting stream, my soul's insatiate prayer. 

Home of sweet thoughts — farewell ! 
Where'er through changeful life my lot may be, 

A deep and hallowed spell 
Is on thy waters and thy woods for me : 

Though vainly fancy craves 
Its childhood witli the music of thy waves. 



O'EE THE WILD WASTE. 

O'e R the wild waste where flowers of hope lay dead, 

And wan rays struggled faintly through the gloom. 
Like starbeams on the midnight waters shed — 

Thou hast brought back the sunshine and th e bloom. 
Like the free bird at heaven's blue portal singing. 

Thy coming heralded the auspicious morn ; 
And golden songs, and airy shapes upspringing, 

In answeringjoy fi'om night's dark breast were born. 
Thou art the flower, whence zephyrs' balm is stealing: 

The fountain, sparkling in the smile of day : 
The sunwrought iris, in the cloud revealing 

More tints than on the radiant sunset play. 
Blessings be with thee, oh, thou happy hearted ! 

For thoughts of beauty, fresh, and glad, and wild — 
For visions of enchantment long departed. 

Bright as when first they dawned on Fancy's child ! 
The Beautiful, that from life's sky had faded. 

Fleet dream of joy — ere passed the morning ray. 
Shines forth, by sorrow's wing no longer shaded, 

And pours again a sunshine on my way. 
No rainbow lustre to thy life's sweet dreaming, 

No gifts like thine, alas ! can she impart, [ing — 
Whose ti-ust, lone dove o'er darkened waters gleam- 
Comes home to nestle in her pining heart ! 
Yet go thy way,blest evermore and blessing! [prayer: 

Heaven scorns not, nor wilt thou, one deep heart's 
And mine shall be, that earth's best joys possessing, 

God's love may guard thee — his peculiar care ! 



SON(|. 
Come, fill a pledge to sorrow, 

The song of mirth is o'er. 
And if there 's sunshine in our hearts, 

'T will light our theme the more : 
And pledge we dull life's changes. 

As round the swift hours pass — 
Too kind were fate, if none but gems 

Should sparkle in Time's glass. 
The dregs and foam together 

Unite to crown the cup. 
And well we know, the weal and wo 

That fill life's cfijlice up ! 
Life's sickly revellers perish — 

The goblet scarcely drained : 
Then lightly quaff, nor lose the sweets 

Which may not be retained. 
What reck we that unequal 

Its varying currents swell — 
The tide that bears our pleasures down. 

Buries our griefs as well ; 
And if the switVwinged tempest 

Have crossed our changeful day, 
The wind that tossed our bark has swept 

Full many a cloud awaj. 
Then grieve not that naught mortal 

Endures through passing years : 
Did life one changeless tenor keep, 

'Twere cause, indeed, for tears. 
And fill we, ere our parting, 

A mantling pledge to sorrow : 
The pang that wrings the heart to-day. 

Time's touch will heal to-morrow ! 



ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 



203 



THE OLD LOVE. 

The old love — the old love — 

It hath a master spell, 
And in its home — the human heart — 

It worketh strong and well : 
Ay, well and sure it worketh, 

And casteth out amain 
Intrusive shapes of evil — 

A sullen, spectral train : 
The serpent, Pride, is crested, 

And Hate hath lips of gall ; 
But the old love — the old love — 

'T is stronger than them all ! 

Years, weary years have vanished, 

Lady, since whisperers wrought 
The work that sundered you and me. 

With words that poison thought : 
Ah ! lasting is the sorrow 

Of a deep and hidden wound. 
When with the coming morrow 

No healing balm is found ; 
And easy 't is with words to hide 

The stricken spirit's yearning, 
And wear a look of icy pride 

When the heart within is burning ! 

Oh, 'tis a bitter, bitter thing. 

Beneath God's holy sky, 
To fill that sentient thing, the heart, 

With strife and enmity ! 
Yea, wo to those who plant the seed 

That yieldeth naught but dole — 
To those who thus do murder 

God's image in the soul ! 
Yet silently and softly 

The dews of mercy fall : 
And the old love — the old love — 

It triumphs over all. 

It was but yestereven 

A vision light and free. 
From the old and happy dreamland, 

Came gliding down to me : 
A vision, lady, of the past, 

The cottage far away, 
Where you and I together 

Oft sat at close of day — • 
Where you and I together 

Oft watched the starht skies. 
And the soul of gentle kindness 

Beamed on me from your eyes : 

And there were gentle voices. 

Like some remembered song. 
And there were hovering shadows, 

A pale and beauteous throng ! 
They seemed hke blessed angels. 

Those kindly memories — 
That floated on their beaming wings. 

To steep the soul in peace ! 
They smiled upon me softly. 

Though ne'er a word was spoke — 
And then the golden past came back. 

And then — my proud heart broke ! 



And, lady, from the vision 

I wistful rose to pray. 
That unto ruling love might be 

The victory alway : 
Oh, many are its cruel foes — 

A host well armed and strong. 
And that fair garnished chamber 

Hath been their dwelling long : 
But the old love — the old love — 

It hath a master spell, 
And in its home — the human heart — 

It worketh sure and well ! 



THE SEA-KINGS. 

'' They are riglitly named sea-kings," says the author of tbe Inglinga- 
eaga, " wlio never seek nbeller under a roof, and never drain their 
dnoJung born at a cottage fire," 

Ocn realm is mighty Ocean, 

The broad and sea-green wave 
That ever hails our greeting gaze — - 

Our dwelling-place and grave ! 
For us the paths of glory he 

Far on the swellmg deep ; 
-'Vnd, brothers to the Tempest, 

We shrink not at his sweep ! 

Our music is the storm-blast 

In fierceness revelling nigh. 
When on our graven bucklers gleam 

His lightnings glancing by. 
Yet most the flash of war-steel keen 

Is welcome in our sight. 
When flies the startled foeman 

Before our falchions' light. 
We ask no peasant's shelter. 

We seek no noble's bowers ; 
Yet they must yield us tribute meet. 

For all they boast is ours. 
No castled prince his wide domain 

Dares from our yoke to free ; 
And, hke mysterious Odin, 

We rule the land and sea ! 

Rear high the blood-red banner ! 

Its folds in triumph wave — 
And long unsullied may it stream 

The standard of the brave ! 
Our swords outspeed the meteor's glance : 

The world their might shall know, 
So long as heaven shines o'er us, 

Or ocean rolls below ! 



VENICE. 

From afar 
The suTgelike tone of multitudes, the hum 
Of glad, famihar voices, and the wild, 
Faint music of the happy gondolier, 
Float up in blended murmurs. Queen of cities ! 
Goddess of ocean ! with the beauty crowned 
Of Aphrodite irom her parent deep ! 
If thine Ausonian heaven denies the sti-ength 
That nerves a mountain race of sterner mould. 
It gives thee charms whose very softness wins 
All hearts to worship ! 



204 



ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 



SONNETS. 

MAKT MAGDALEN. 

Blessed, tho' grief and shame o'erflow thine eyes; 

Blessed, though scofled at by the gazing crowd : 

He unto whom thou kneelst rebukes the proud, 
And bids thee now the child of Heaven arise. 
Hath he not said, that where the bramble grew 

The myrtle should come up 'i the sweet fir tree 

Replace the thorn, and grass abundantly 
Wave where the desert land no moisture knew t 

But see the bleak and lonely wilderness 
With fragrant roses, hke a garden bloom — 

The perished tree revive, again to bless ! 
See, fed with streams, the thirsty land rejoice — 
And hear the waste lift up its gladsome voice, 

" To taste his fiuits, let my Beloved come." 



THE GOOD SHEPHEHD. 

SHEPHEnD,with meek brow wreathedwith blossoms 
sweet. 

Who guardst thy timid flock with tenderest care, 
M^ho guid'st in sunny paths their wandering feet, 

And the young lambs dost in thy bosom bear ; 

Who leadst thy happy flock to pastures fair, 
And by still waters at the noon of day — • 

Charming with late divine the silent air, 
What time they linger on the verdant way ; 

Good Shepherd ! might one gentle, distant strain 
Of that immortal melody sink deep 
Into my heart, and pierce its careless sleep. 

And melt by powerful love its sevenfold chain : 
Oh, then my soul thy voice should know, and flee 
To mingle with thy flock, and ever follow Thee ! 



Oa, WEAIiy HEART. 

Oh, weary heart, there is a rest for Ihee ! 

Oh truant heart, there is a blessed home — 
An isle of gladness on life's wayward sea. 

Where storms that vex the waters never come ; 
There trees perennial yield their balmy shade. 

There flower-wreathed hills in sunlit beauty sleep, 
There meekstrearasmurmurlhro' the verdant glade, 

There heaven bends smiling o'er the placid deep. 
Winnowed by wings immortal that fair isle; 

Vocal its air with music from above : 
There meets t^ie exile eye a welcoming smile ; 

There ever speaks a summoning voice of love 
Unto the heavy-laden and distressed, 
" Come unto me, and I will give you rest." 



"ABIDE WITH US." 

" Abide with us ! The evening hour draws on ; 
And pleasant at the daylight's fading close 

The traveller's repose ! 
And as at morn's approach the shades are gone. 
Thy words, oh, blessed stranger, have dispelled 
The midnight gloom in which our souls were held. 

Sadwereoursouls, and quenched hope's latest ray, 
But thou to us hast words of comfort given 

Of Him who came from heaven ! 
How burned our hearts within us on the way, 
While thou the sacred scripture didst unfold. 
And bad'st us trust the promise given of old. 



Abide with us : let us not lose thee yet ! 
Lest unto us the cloud of fear return. 

When we are left to mourn 
That Israel's Hope — his better Sun — is set ! 
Oh, teach us more of what we long to know. 
That new-born joy may chide our faithless wo." 

Thus in their sorrow the disciples prayed. 
And knew not He was walking by their side 

Who on the cross had died ! 
But when he broke the consecrated bread, 
Then saw they who had deigned to bless their board, 
And in the stranger hailed their risen Lord. 

"Abide with us !" Thus the believer prays, 
Compassed with doubt and bitterness and dread — 

When, as life from the dead. 
The bow of mercy breaks upon his gaze : 
He trusts the word, yet fears lest from his heart 
He whose discourse is peace too soon depart. 

Open, thou trembling one, the portal wide, 
And to the inmost chamber of thy breast 

Take home the heavenly guest ! 
He for the famished shall a feast provide — 
And thou shalt taste the bread of life, and see 
The Lord of angels come to sup with thee. 

Beloved — who for us with care hast sought — 
Say, shall we hear thy voice, and let thee wait 

All night before the gate — 
Wet with the dews — nor greet thee as we ought 1 
Oh, strike the fetters from the hand of pride, 
And, that we perish not, with us, Lord, abide ! 



THE PERSECUTED. 

Oil iingel! tLine he threefcild bliss in lieaven, 
For thou ou tins liai'k eartL hast much forgiven. 

It was a bitter pain 
That pierced her gentle heart; 
For barbed by malice was the dart, 
And sped with treachery's deadhest art, 

The shaft ne'er sped in vain. 
That trusting heart, so true, 
(For guile it never knew !) 
The tender heart, that ever clung 
Where its wild wreath of love was flung — 
The proud, high heart, that could have borne 
All, save that false, unrighteous scorn — 
It writhed beneath the stroke 

Of that strange, cruel wrong : 
Yet not — not then it broke — 

For brave it was and strong ! 
'T was like the startled dove, 

Scared from her woody nest — 
Her sheltered home of love, 
Deep in the mountaiirL, breast : 
When first she mounts, the caverns ring 
To the wild flapping of her wing ; 
But once aloft, she cleaves the light, 
And floats in calm, unruflied flight. 
Thus struggling o'er the wo to rise, 
The stricken, heart-distempered flies — 
Thus soars at last, its pain and peril o'er, 
Serene in tranquil pride, to fear the shaft no more. 



ELIZABETH F. ELLET. 



205 



A DIHGE* 

He is gone ! Though mournfully 
Comes the deep, heart-heaved sigh, 

Though your tears do fall like rain, 
Though no outward sign could show 
All the bosom's wordless wo — 

All is in vain : 
He, for whom ye, stricken, mourn, 
He, the lost one, shall return 

Never again ! 

To the grave in silence down, 

To the sullen, rayless gloom 

In the chambers of the tomb, 
He now is gone ! 
With his trustful, generous truth, 
In his guileless, joyous youth — 

In his gentle constancy. 

In his young heart's purity ; 
Wearing life's wreath blooming, bright, 
That had known no touch of blight ; 

With the genius God had given. 

In the very smile of Heaven ; 
Smiling all around, above him, 
Knowing none who did not love him — 
He hath passed away ! 

Ye who strove his flight to stay. 
Well ye know that he you mourn 

Never caused your hearts a pain, 
Till he left you, to return 
Never again ! 

Pass with measured pace and slow, 
Hide the faces pale with wo ; 
Solemn music, sad and low. 

Fill the hallowed aisle ! 
Let the the darkly-folded pall 
Like a shadow o'er him fall — 

Him — your joy e'erwhile ; 
Let the slowly sounding bell 
Peal its deep-voiced, warning knell : 
To the earth, with words of trust. 
Then commit him — dust to dust ! 
Weep now for the lonely morrow, 

For the hearthlight cold — 
In your dark and silent sorrow. 

Hearts with grief grown old : 
Ye have trod the vintage dread, 

Till no purple drops remain ; 
Till no more its wine is shed 

Ye have drained the cup of pain. 
And ye know, as years go on. 
And are numbered one by one, 
This same grief shall have its rest 
In the worn and wounded breast; 

Ye shall look and long in vain, 
Following still in thought the track 
He has passed, who will come back 
Never again ! 

Friends of youth, too, he left, 

When he departed : 
They are weeping now, bereft — 

They, the true hearted. 

* In Gtyle and measure, this is an imitation of a poem by 
an Englisti author, entitled The Flight of Youth. 



Desolate is now the place 
Where so late they saw his face. 
And a darkness seems to brood 
On the sudden solitude. 
Soon the places that of yore 
Knew, shall know the lost no more ; 
Soon forgotten he shall be. 

He who all so happy made 
With his smile so light and free. 

Bringing sunshine to the shade. 
Ay, between those hearts and him 
Lies a gulf so dark and dim, 
Eyes of flesh look not upon 

That strange distant shore. 
Whither the lost friend is gone 

To return no more ! 

Alas ! 'tis even so : 
Yet from that unknown land. 
That house not made with mortal hand, 
Can not the parted soul command 
Some balm for earthly wo 1 

Blessed the dead, the Spirit saith. 

Who life's beguihng path have trod 
Obedient to the law of faith. 

With heart still fixed on God. 
Eye hath not seen that world above ; 
Ear hath not heard that hymn of love : 
Oh, if but once were rent away 
The veil which hides that heavenly day, 
On this cold earth we would not stay I 
Heard we the harpings of that sphere, 
We would not linger here ! 
Yea, we would spurn this darksome earth,. 

And stretch our eager wings, and fly 
To claim our heritage by birth — 

Heaven and Eternity ! 
Nor marvel — in that glorious land. 
Who taste the joys at God's right hand, 

Where love divine doth reign — 
Who Heaven's own praises learn — 
To this sad earth return 
Never again ! 



THE BURIAL. 

We laid her in the hallowed place 

Beside the solemn deep. 
Where the old woods by Greenwood's shore 

Keep watch o'er those who sleep : 

We laid her there — the young and fair, 

The guileless, cherished one — ■ 
As if a part of life itself 

With her we loved were gone. 

Like to the flowers she lived and bloomed, 

As bright and pure as they ; 
And like a flower the blight had touched, 

She early passed away. 

Oh, none might know her but to love, 

Nor name her but to praise. 
Who only love for others knew 

Through life's brief vernal days. 



JULIA H. SCOTT. 



The late Mrs. Mayo describes the life of 
Mrs. Scott as having been " commenced in 
one of the quietest mountain valleys, and, 
with one or two brief episodes only, matured 
and finished not a dozen miles from where it 
was begun." In such a career there could 
have been little to interest the public, and 
her friend appropriately confined the me- 
moir prefixed to her poems as much as pos- 
sible to the growth and product of her mind. 
Mrs. Scott's maiden name was Julia H. Kin- 
ney, and she was born on the fourth of No- 
vember, 1809, in the beautiful valley of She- 
shequiu, in northern Pennsylvania. Her pa- 
rents were in humble circumstances, and as 
the eldest of a large family she seems to have 
lived the patient Griselda, beautifully fulfil- 
ling all the duties of her condition, while she 
availed herself of every opportunity to en- 
large her knowledge and improve her tastes. 
She wrote verses with some point and har- 
mony when but twelve years of age, and 
when sixteen or seventeen began to publish 



in a village newspaper essays and poems that 
evinced a fine fancy and earnest feeling. She 
afterward wrote for The Casket, a monthly 
magazine published in Philadelphia, for The 
New-Yorker, and for the Universalist reli- 
gious journals. In May, 1835, she was mar- 
ried to Dr. David L. Scott, of Towanda, the 
principal village of the county, which from 
this period became her home. In 1838 she 
visited Boston, and she made some other ex- 
cursions for the improvement of her health, 
but consumption had wasted the singularly 
fine person and blanched the beautiful face 
which I remember to have seen in their me- 
ridian, and in the last year of her life she had 
no hope of restoration. She died at Towan- 
da on the fifth of March, 1842. 

The poems of Mrs. Scott, with a memoir 
by Miss S. C. Edgarton, (afterward Mrs. 
Mayo,) were published in Boston, in 1843. 
The volume contains an excellent portrait 
of her by S. A. Mount, and several commem- 
orative poems by her friends. 



THE TWO GRAVES. 

Thet sweetly slumber, side by side, 
Upon the green and pleasant hill. 

Where the young morning's sunny tide 
First wakes the shadows, dark and still, 

And where gray twilight's breeze goes by 

Laden with woodland melody. 

And Heaven's own tireless watchmen keep 

A vigil o'er their slumbers deep. 

They sleep together — but their graves 
Are marked by no sepulchral stone ; 

Above their heads no willow waves, 
No cypress shade is o'er them tlirown : 

The only record of their deeds 

Is that where silent Memory leads, 

Their only monument of fame 

Is found in each beloved name. 

Oh, theirs was not the course which seals 

The favor of a fickle world, 
They did not raise the warring steel, 

Their hands no bloody flag unfurled ; 
They came not with a cup of wrath. 
To drench with gall life's thorny path, 
But, day and night, they strove to win. 
By love, the palsied soul from sin. 



Like two bright stars at eventide. 

They shone with undiminished ray ; 
And though clouds gathered far and wide. 

Still held they on their upward way, 
And still unheeded swept them by 
The threatenings of this lower sky — 
For they had built upon the Rock, 
Defying tide and tempest's shock. 

To them the vanities of life 

Were but as bubbles of the sea : 

They shunned the boisterous swell of strife ; 
From Pride's low thrall their souls were 
free. 

They only sought by Christ to show 

The Father's love for all below ; 

They only strove through Christ to raise 

The wandering mind fi'om error's maze. 

But now they sleep — and oh, may ne'er 
One careless footstep press the sod 

Where moulder those we held so dear, 
The friends of man, the friends of God ! 

And let alone warm feeling twine 

An olfering at their lowly shrine ; 

While all who knew them humbly try 

Like them to live, like them to die. 
206 



JULIA H. SCOTT. 



207 



MY CHILD. 

" There is one who has loved me debarred from the day." 

The foot of Spring is on yon blue-topped mountain, 

Leaving its green prints'neath each spreading tree ; 
Her voice is heard beside the swelling fountain, 

Giving sweet tones to its wild melody. 
From the warm south she brings unnumbered roses, 

To greet with smiles the eye of giief and care : 
Her balmy breath on the worn brow reposes. 

And her rich gifts are scattered everywhere ; — 
I heed them not, my chUd. 

In the low vale the snow-white daisy springeth, 

The golden dandelion by its side ; 
The eglantine a dewy fragrance flingeth 

To the soft breeze that wanders far and wide. 
The hyacinth and polyanthus render. 

From their deep hearts, an offering of love ; 
And fresh May-pinks and half-blown lilacs tender 

Their grateful homage to the skies above ; — 
I heed them not, my child. 

In the clear brook are springing water-cresses. 

And pale green rushes, and fair, nameless flowers; 
While o'er them dip the willow's vei'dant tresses. 

Dimpling the surface with their mimic showers. 
The honeysuckle stealthily is creeping 

Kound the low porch and mossy cottage-eaves ; 
Oh ! Spring hath fairy treasures in her keeping, 

And lovely are the landscapes that she weaves ; — 
'T is naught to me, my child. 

Down the green lane come peals of heartfelt laughter; 

The school hath sent its eldest inmates forth ; 
And now a smaller band comes dancing after, 

Filling the air mth shouts of infant mirth. 
At the rude gate the anxious dame is bending. 

To clasp her rosy darlings to her breast ; 
Joy, pride, and hope, are in her bosom blending ; 

Ah ! peace with her is no unusual guest ; — 
Not so with me, my child. 

All the day long I listen to the singing 

Of the gay birds and winds among the trees ; 
But a sad under-strain is ever ringing 

A tale of death and its dread mysteries. 
Nature to me the letter is, that killeth — 

The spirit of her charms has passed away ; 
A fount of bliss no more my bosom fiUeth — 

Slumbers its idol in unconscious clay ; — 

Thou 'rt in the gi-ave, my child. 

For thy glad voice my spirit inly pineth, 

I languish for thy blue eyes' holy light : 
Vainly for me the glorious sunbeam shineth ; 

Vainly the blessed stars come forth at night. 
I walk in darkness, with the tomb before me. 

Longing to lay my dust beside thine own ; 
Oh cast the mantle of thy presence o'er me ! 

Beloved, leave me not so deeply lone ; — 

Come back to me, my child ! 
Upon that breast of pitying love thou leanest. 

Which oft on earth did pillow such as thou, 
Nor turned away petitioner the meanest : 

Pray to Him, sinless — he will hear thee now. 



Plead for thy weak and broken-hearted mother ; 

Pray that thy voice may whisper words of peace : 
Her ear is deaf, and can discern no other ; 

Speali, and her bitter sorrowings shall cease ; — 
Come back to me, my child ! 

Comebutin dreams — let me once more behold thee, 

As in thy hours of buoyancy and glee, 
And one brief moment in my arms enfold thee — 

Beloved, I will not ask thy stay with me. 
Leave but the impress of thy dovelike beauty, 

Which Memoi-y strives so vainly to recall, 
And I will onward in the path of duty. 

Restraining tears that ever fain would fall ; — 

Come but m dreams, my cliild ! 



INVOCATION TO POETRY. 

" I said to tlie spirit of poesy, 'Come bacli ;' thou art my comforter.' " 

Come back, come back, sweet spirit, 

I miss thee in my dreams ; 
I miss thee in the laughing bowers 

And by the gushing streams. 
The sunshine hath no gladness, 

The harp no joyous tone — 
Oh, darkly glide the moments by 

Since thy soft light has flown. 

Come back, come back, sweet spirit, 

As in the glorious past. 
When the halo of a brighter world 

Was round my being cast ; 
When midnight had no darkness. 

When sorrow smiled through tears. 
And life's blue sky seemed bowed in love, 

To bless the coming years. 

Come back, come back, sweet spirit. 

Like the glowing flowers of spring, 
Ere Time hath snatched the last pure wreath 

From Fancy's glittering wing ; 
Ere the heart's increasing shadows 

Refuse to pass away. 
And the silver cords wax thin which bind 

To heaven the weary clay. 

Come back, thou art my comforter : 

What is the world to me 1 
Its cares that live, its hopes that die. 

Its heartless revelry 1 
Mine, mine, oh blessed spirit! 

The inspiring draught be mine. 
Though words may ne'er reveal how deep 

My worship at thy shrine. 

Come back, thou holy spirit. 

By the bliss thou mayst impart. 
Or by the pain thine absence gives 

A deeply stricken heart. 
Come back, as comes the sunshine 

Upon the sobbing sea. 
And every roaming thought shall vow 

Allegiance to thee. 



ANNA PEYRE DINNIES. 



Mrs. Dinnies is a daughter of Mr. Justice 
Shackleford, of South Carolina, and was edu- 
cated at a school in Charleston conducted by 
the daughters of Dr. Ramsay, the historian. 
In 1S30 she was married to Mr. John C. Din- 
nies, then of St. Louis, where she resided 
until the recent removal of Mr. Dinnies to 
New Orleans. Mrs. Hale, in her Ladies' 
Wreath, states that she became engaged in 
a literary correspondence with Mr. Dinnies 
more than four years before their union, and 
that they never met until one week before 
their marriage. " The contract was made 
solely from sympathy and congeniality of 



mind and taste ; and that in their estimate 
of each other they were not disappointed, 
may be inferred from the tone of her songs." 
The greater part of the poems of Mrs. Din- 
nies appeared originally in various maga- 
zines under the signature of " Moina." In 
1846 she published in a richly illustrated vol- 
ume entitled The Floral Year, one hundred 
compositions, arranged in twelve groups, to 
illustrate that number of bouquets, gathered 
in the different months. Her pieces celebra- 
ting the domestic affections are marked by 
unusual grace and tenderness, and some of 
them are worthy of the most elegant poets. 



WEDDED LOVE. 

Come, rouse thee, dearest ! — 'tis not well 

To let the spirit brood 
Thus darkly o'er the cares that swell 

Life's current to a flood. 
As brooks, and torrents, rivers, all 
Increase the gulf in which they fall. 
Such thoughts, by gathering up the rills 
Of lesser griefs, spread real ills, 
And with their gloomy shades conceal 
The landmarks Hope would else reveal. 

Come, rouse thee, now : I know thy mind, 
And would its strength awaken ; 

Proud, gifted, noble, ardent, kind — 

Strange thou shouldst be thus shaken ! 

But rouse afresh each energy, 

And be what Heaven intended thee ; 

Throw from thy thoughts this wearying weight, 

And prove thy spirit firmly great : 

I would not->see thee bend below 

The angry storms of earthly wo. 

Full well I know the generous soul 
Which warms thee into life — 
Each spring which can its powers control, 

Familiar to thy wife ; 
For deemst thou she had stooped to bind 
Her fate unto a common mind ? 
The eagle-like ambition, nursed 
From childliood in her heart, had first 
Consumed, with its Promethean flame. 
The shrine — then sunk her soul to shame. 

Then rouse thee, dearest, from the dream 

That fetters now thy powers : 
Shake off this gloom — Hope sheds a beam 

To gild each cloud which lowers ; 
And though at present seems so far 
The wished-for goal — a guiding star. 
With peaceful ray, would light thee on, 



Until its utmost bounds be won : 
That quenchless ray thou 'It ever prove 
In fond, undying wedded love. 



THE WIFE. 

I COULD have stemmed misfortune's tide, 

And borne the rich one's sneer. 
Have braved the haughty glance of pride, 

Nor shed a single tear ; 
I could have smiled on every blow 

From life's full quiver thrown. 
While I might gaze on thee, and know 

I should not be " alone." 

I could — I think I could have brooked. 

E'en for a time, that thou 
Upon my fading face hadst looked 

With less of love than now ; 
For then I should at least have felt 

The sweet hope still my ovi'n 
To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt 

On earth, not been " alone." 

But thus to see, from day to day, 

Thy brightening eye and cheek, 
And watch thy Ufe-sands waste away. 

Unnumbered, slowly, meek ; 
To meet thy smiles of tenderness, 

And catch the feeble tone 
Of kindness, ever breathed to bless. 

And feel, I '11 be " alone ;" 

To mark thy strength each hour decay. 

And yet thy hopes grow stronger. 
As, filled with heavenward trust, they say 

"Earth may not claiui thee longer;" 
Nay, dearest, 'tis too much — this heart 

Must break when thou art gone ; 
It must not be ; we may not part ; 

I could not live " alone "' 
2nR 



ANNA PEYRE DINNIES. 



209 



EMBLEMS. 

FiKST take a feather, and lay it upon 

The stream that is rippling by : 
With the current, behold, in a moment 'tis gone, 

Unimpressive and light as a sigh ; 
Then take thee a clear and precious stone, 

And on the same stream place it : 
Oh ! mark how the water on which it is thrown, 

In its bosom will quickly encase it ! 
Or take a crystal, or stainless glass ; 

With a crayon upon it then trace 
A sentence, or line, and watch how 'twill pass — 

A breath will its beauty efface ; 
Then take a diamond, as pure as 'tis bright, 

And write some modest token ; 
Mid heat or cold, in shade, in light, 

'T will last till the crj-stal is broken. 
And thus with the tablet of woman's pure heart, 

When the vain and the idle may try 
To leave their impressions, they swiftly depart, 

Like the feather, the scroll, and the sigh ; 
But once be inscribed on that tablet a name, 

And an image of genius and worth. 
Through the changes of life it will still be the same. 

Till that heart is removed from the earth. 

THE TRUE BALLAD OF THE WANDERER. 

A XAiDEX in a southern bower 

Of fragrant ^^nes and citron-trees, 
To charm the pensive twilight hour, 

Flung wild her thoughts upon the breeze ; 
To Cupid's ear unconscious teUing 
The fitful dream her bosom swelling, 
Till Echo softly on it dwelling. 
Revealed the urchin, bold and free. 
Repealing thus her minstrelsy : 
" Away, away ! by brook and fountain. 

Where the wild deer wanders free. 
O'er sloping dale and swelling mountain. 
Still my fancy follows thee ; 

Where the lake its bosom spreading, 
Where the breeze its sweets is shedding. 
Where thy buoyant steps are treading. 
There — where'er the spot may be — 
There my thoughts are following thee ! 
" In the forest's dark recesses. 

Where the fawn may fearless stray ; 
In the cave no sunbeam blesses 
With its first or parting ray ; 

Where the birds are blithely singing. 
Where the fiowers are gayly springing, 
Where the bee its course is winging, 
There, if there thou now mayst be, 
Anxious Thought is following thee ! 
" In the lowly peasant's cot. 
Quiet refuge of content ; 
In the sheltered, grass-grown spot, 
Resting, when with travel spent. 
Where the vine its tendrils curling. 
Where the trees their boughs are furhng. 
Where the streamlet clear is purling. 
There, if there thou now mayst be, 
There my spirit follows thee ! 



" In the city's busy mart. 

Mingling with its restless crowd ; 
Mid the miracles of art. 

Classic pile, and column proud ; 
O'er the ancient ruin sighing, 
AVhen the sun's last ray is dying, 
Or to fashion's vortex flying. 
Even there, if thou mayst be, 
There my thoughts must follow thee ! 

" In the revel — in the dance — 

With the firm, familiar friend — 
Or where Thespian arts entrance. 
Making mirth and sadness blend ; 
Where the living pageant glowing. 
O'er thy heart its spell is throwing, 
Mimic life in ' alto^ showing. 
There, beloved, if thou mayst be, 
There, still there, I follow thee ! 

" When the weary day is over, 

And thine eyes in slumber close. 
Still, oh ! still, inconstant rover, 
Do I charm thee to repose ; 

With the shades of night descending. 
With thy guardian spirits blending. 
To thy sleep sweet visions lending, 
There, e'en there, true love may he, 
There and thus am I with thee I" 

Months and seasons rolled away. 

And the maiden's cheek was pale; 
When, as bloomed the buds of May, 
Cupid thus resumed the tale : 
" Over land and sea returning. 
Wealth, and power, and beauty spuming, 
Love within his true heart burning. 
Comes the wanderer wild and free, 
Faithful maiden, back to thee !" 



LOVE'S MESSENGERS. 

Ye little Stars, that twinkle high 

In the dark vault of heaven. 
Like spangles on the deep blue sky, 
Perhaps to you 'tis given 

To shed your lucid radiance now 
Upon my absent loved one's brow \ 

Ye fleecy Clouds, that swiftly glide 

O'er Earth's oft-darkened way. 
Floating along in grace and pride, 
Perhaps your shadows stray 

E'en now across the starry light 

That guides my wanderer forth to-ra'ght 1 

Ye balmy Breezes sweeping by, 

And shedding freshness round. 
Ye, too, may haply as ye fly. 

With health and fragrance crowned. 

Linger a moment, soft and light, 

To sport amid his tresses bright ? 

Then Stars, and Clouds, and Breezes, bear 

My heart's best wish to him ; 
And say the feelings glowing there 
Nor time nor change can dim ; 
That be success or grief his share. 
My love still brightening shall appear. 



ANN S. STEPHENS. 



Mks. Stephens is well known as one of 
the most spirited and popular of our maga- 
zinists. She was born in Derby, Connecti- 
cut, in 1811, and in 1S31 was married to Mr. 
Edward Stephens, of Portland, who in 1835 
commenced the publication of the Portland 
Magazine, of which she was two years the 
editress. In 1837 she removed to New York, 
and she has since been a writer for The La- 



dies' Companion, Graham's Magazine, The 
Ladies' National Magazine, The Columbian 
Magazine, and other periodicals of the same 
character. Her tales and sketches would 
probably fill a dozen common duodecimo vol- 
umes. Her longest poem, entitled The Po- 
lish Boy, was first published in 1839. There 
has been no collection either of her poems or 
of her prose writings. 



THE OLD APPLE-TREE. 

I AM thinking of the homestead. 

With its low and sloping roof, 
And the maple boughs that shadowed it 

With a green and leafy woof; 
I am thinking of the lilac-trees, 

That shook their purple plumes, 
And, when the sash was open, 

Shed fragrance through the rooms. 

I am thinking of the rivulet, 

With its cool and silvery flow, 
Of the old gray rock that shadowed it. 

And the peppermint below. 
I am not sad nor sorrowful. 

But memories will come ; 
So leave me to my solitude. 

And let me think of home. 
There was not around my birthplace 

A thicket or a flower, 
But childish game or friendly face 

Has given it a power 
To haunt me in my after-life, 

And be with me again — 
A sweet and pleasant memory 

Of mingled joy and pain. 
But the old and knotted apple-tree, 

That stood beneath the hill. 
My heart can never turn to it 

But with a pleasant thrill. 
Oh, what a dreamy life I led 

Beneath its old green shade, 
Where the daisies and the butter-cups 

A pleasant carpet made ! 
'T was a rough old tree in spring-time. 

When, with a blustering sound, 
The wind came hoarsely sweeping 

Along the frosty ground. 
But when there rose a rivalry 

'Tween clouds and pleasant weather. 
Till the sunshine and the raindrops 

Came laughing down together ; 



That patriarch old apple-tree 

Enjoyed the lovely strife ; 
The sap sprang lightly through its vems. 

And circled into life : 
A cloud of pale and tender buds 

Burst o'er each rugged bough ; 
And amid the starting verdure 

The robins made their vow. 

That tree was very beautiful 

When all its leaves were green, 
And rosy buds lay opening 

Amid their tender sheen : 
When the bright, translucent dewdrops 

Shed blossoms as they fell, 
And melted in their fragrance 

Like music in a shell. 

It was greenest in the summer-time, 

When cheerful sunlight wove 
Amid its thrifty leafiness 

A warm and glowing love ; 
When swelling fruit blushed ruddily 

To Summer's balmy breath, 
And the laden boughs drooped heavdy 

To the greensward underneath. 

'T was brightest in a rainy day, 

When all the purple west 
Was piled %vith fleecy storm-clouds 

That never seemed at rest ; 
When a cool and lulling melody 

Fell from the dripping eaves. 
And soft, warm drops came pattering 

Upon the restless leaves. 

But oh, the scene was glorious 

When clouds were lightly riven. 
And there above my valley home 

Came out the bow of heaven — 
And in its fitful brilliancy 

Hung quivering on high, 
Like a jewelled arch of paradise 

Reflected through the sky. 

210 



A. R. ST. JOHN. 



211 



I am thinking of the footpath 

My constant visits made, 
Between the dear old homestead 

And that leafy apple shade ; 
Where the flow of distant waters 

Came with a tinkling sound, 
Like the revels of a fairy band, 

Beneath the fragrant ground. 

I haunted it at eventide, 

And dreamily would he 
And watch the crimson twilight 

Come stealing o'er the sky ; 
'T was sweet to see its dying gold 

Wake up the dusky leaves — 
To hear the swallows twittering 

Beneath the distant eaves. 



I have listened to the music — 

A low, svs'eet minstrelsy. 
Breathed by a lonely night-bird 

That haunted that old tree — ■ 
Till my heart has swelled with feelings 

For which it had no name — 
A yearning love of poesy, 

A thirsting after fame. 

I have gazed up through the foliage 

With dim and tearful eyes, 
And with a holy reverence 

Dwelt on the changing skies, 
Till the burning stars were peopled 

With forms of spirit birth. 
And I 've almost heard their harp-strings 

Reverberate on earth. 



A. R. ST. JOHN. 



Mrs. St. John, formerly Miss Munroe, 
was born in the vicinity of Boston, and in 
1826 was married to Mr. J. R. St. John. She 
has for several years resided in Brooklyn, 



Nevir York. She is said to be a voluminous 
writer, and she has been a contributor, under 
her name, to the Democratic Review and oth- 
er literary miscellanies. 



MEDUSA. 

FROM AN ANTIQUE GEM. 

Fated sister of the tln-ee ! 
Mortal, though a deity ; 
Superhuman beauty thine. 
Demon goddess, power divine ! 
Thou a mortal life didst share. 
Thou a human death didst bear ; 
Yet thy soul supremely free 
Shrank not from its destiny : 
And the life-drops firom thy head, 
On Libyan sands which Perseus shed. 
Sprang, a scourging race, from thee, 
Fell types of artful mystery. 
Thou wast the victim of dire rage, 
Minerva's vengeance to assuage. 
And thy locks like molten gold, 
Sheltering love in every fold. 
Transformed into the serpent's lair. 
That writhe and hiss in thy despair. 

Fatal beauty, thou dost seem 
The phantom of some feaiful dream ; 
Extremes of horror and of love 
Alternate o'er our senses move. 
As, wrapt and spell-bound, we survey 
The fearful coils which round thee play, 
And mark thy mild, enduring smile, 
Lit by no mortal fire the while. 

Formed to attract all eyes to thee. 
And yet their withering light to be, 
With some mysterious, powerful charm 



That can the sternest will disarm. 

The color from the warm cheek steal. 

The life-blood in the heart congeal. 

Or petrify with wild dismay 

I'he boldest gazer's human clay — - 

This is a terrible ministry 

For one with such a destiny. 

Oh couldst thou unto mortals give 
Thy strength to suffer, grace to live, 
Teach them with ever-heavenward eye 
The direst chances to defy. 
Wrapt in the grandeur of a soul 
To meet the finite and control — 
This thy dread mission would unseal — 
This thy mysterious self reveal. 

In vain we wonder what thou art — 
Whether thou hast a human heart ; 
Whether thou feelest scorpion stings 
From shadowy troops Repentance brings 
In never still or slumbering bands 
Upon the spirit's arid sands ; 
Whether Regret's more gentle forms. 
Long brooding, come at length in storms ; 
Whether the taunts of flying Hope 
Doom thee without the gates to grope — 
We know not — we shall never know — 
Night hides in gloom thy cause of wo. 
But if no voice of thine complains 
While braving all such human pains, 
Just is thy claim with gods to be — 
Their segis and dread mystery. 



SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH. 



Miss Hickman, afterward Mrs. Smith, was 
born in Detroit on the thirtieth of June, 1811, 
at which time her grandfather, Major-Gen- 
eral Hull — whose patriotism and misfortunes 
are at length beginning to be justly appreci- 
ated by the people — was governor of Michi- 
gan. While a child she accompanied her 
mother to the home of her family, in New- 
ton, Massachusetts, where she was carefully 
educated. She acquired knowledge with ex- 
traordinary facility, and when but thirteen 
years of age her compositions were compared 
to those of Kirke White and others whose 
early maturity is the subject of some of the 
most interesting chapters in literary history. 
Ill her eighteenth year she was married to 
Mr. Samuel Jenks Smith, then editor of a 
periodical in Providence, where he soon af- 
ter published a collection of her poems, in a 
volume of two hundred and fifty duodecimo 



pages, many of the pieces in which were 
written as it was passing through the press. 
In 1829 Mr. and Mrs. Smith removed to Cin- 
cinnati, where they resided nearly two years, 
and here she continued to write, with a sort 
of improvisatorial ease, but with increasing 
elegance and a constantly deepening tone of 
reflection, until her health was too much de- 
cayed, and then she returned to New York, 
where, on the twelfth of February, 1832, she 
died, in the twenty-first year of her age. Her 
husband was for several years connected with 
the press in this city, and died while on a 
voyage to Europe in 1842. 

The poems of Mrs. Smith are interesting 
chiefly as the productions of a very youthful 
author. She wrote with grace and spright- 
liness, and sometimes with feeling ; but there 
is little in her writings that would survive 
its connexion with her history. 



THE HUMA." 

Fly on ! nor touch thy wing, bright bird, 

Too near our shaded earth. 
Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard, 

May lose its note of mirth. 
Fly on — nor seek a place of rest 

111 the home of " care-worn things ;" 
'T would dim the light of thy shining crest 

And thy brightly burnished wings. 
To dip them .where the waters glide 
That flow from a troubled earthly tide. 

The fields of upper air are thine. 

Thy place where stars shine free ; 
I would thy home, bright one, were mine, 

Above life's stormy sea ! 
I would never wander, bird, like thee. 

So near this place again. 
With wing and spirit once light and free — 

They should wear no more the chain 
With wliich they are bound and fettered here, 
For ever struggling for skies more clear. 

There are many things like thee, bright bird, 

Hopes as thy plumage gay ; 
Our air is with them for ever stirred. 

But still in air they stay. 
And happiness. Idee thee, fair one, 

* A bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly con- 
stantly in tile air. and never touch the ground. 



Is ever hovering o'er. 
But rests in a land of brighter sun. 

On a waveless, peaceful shore. 
And stoops to lave her weary wings 
Where the fount of " Uving waters" springs. 



WHITE B.0SE3. 

They were gathered for a bridal : 

I knew it by their hue — 
Fair as the summer moonlight 

Upon the sleeping dew. 
From their fair and fairy sisters 

They were borne, without a sigh, 
For one remembered evening 

To blossom and to die. 

They were gathered for a bridal. 

And fastened in a wreath ; 
But purer were the roses 

Than the heart that lay beneath ; 
Yet the beaming eye was lovely, 

And the coral lip was fair. 
And the gazer looked and asked not 

For the secret hidden there. 

They were gathered for a bridal. 

Where a thousand torches ghstened, 

When the holy words were spoken. 
And the false and faithless listened 
212 



SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH. 213 


And answered to the vow 


THE FALL OF WARSAW. 


Wliich another heart had taken: 




Yet he was present then — 


Thuocgh Warsaw there is weeping. 


The once loved, the forsaken ! 


And a voice of sorrow now, 


They were gathered for a bridal, 
And now, now they are dying, 


For the hero who is sleeping 


With death upon his brow ; 


And young Love at the altar 


The trumpet-tone will waken 


Of broken faith is sighing. 


No more his martial tread. 


Their summer life was stainless, 


JVor the battle-ground be shaken 


And not like hers who wore them : 


When his banner is outspread ! 


They are faded, and the farewell 


Now let our hymn 


Of beauty lingers o'er them ! 


Float through the aisle. 


Faintly and dim. 




Where moonbeams smile : 




Sisters, let our solemn strain 


STANZAS. 


Breathe a blessing o'er the slain. 




There's a voice of grief in Warsaw — 

The mourning of the brave 
O'er the chieftain who is gathered 


I WOULD not have thee deem my heart 
Unmindful of those higher joys, 


Regardless of that better part 


Unto his honored grave I 


Which earthly passion ne'er alloys. 


AVho now will face the foeman 1 


I would not have thee think I hve 


Who break the tyrant's chain t 
Their bravest one lies fallen. 


Within heaven's pure and blessed light. 


Nor feeling nor affection give 

To Him who makes my pathway bright. 


And sleeping with the slain. 
Now let our hymn 


I would not chain to mystic creeds 


Float through the aisle, 


A spirit fetterless and free ; 


Faintly and dim. 


The beauteous path to heaven that leads 


Where moonbeams smile ; 


Is dimmed by earthly bigotry : 


Sisters, let our dirge be said 


And yet, for all that earth can give, 


Slowly o'er the sainted dead ! 


And all it e'er can take away. 


There 's a voice of woman weeping. 


I would not have that spirit rove 


In Warsaw heard to-night. 


One moment from its heavenward way. 


And eyes close not in sleeping. 


I would not that my heart were cold 


That late with joy were bright ; 


And void of gratitude to Him 


No festal torch is lighted. 


Who makes those blessings to unfold 


No notes of music swell ; 


Which by our waywardness grow dim. 


Their country's hope was blighted 


I would not lose the cherished trust 


When that son of Freedom fell ! 


Of things within the world to come — • 


Now let our hymn 


The thoughts, that when their joys are dust, 


Float through the aisle, 


The weary have a peaceful home. 


Faintly and dim. 

Where moonbeams smile ; 


For I have left the dearly loved. 


Sisters, let our hymn arise 


The home, the hopes of other years, 


Sadly to the midnight skies ! 


And early in its pathway proved 

Life's rainbow hues were formed of tears. 
I shall not meet them here again. 

Those loved, and lost, and cherished ones, 
Bright links in young Aifection's chain, 

In Memory's sky unsetting suns. 


And a voice of love undying, 
From the tomb of other years. 

Like the west wind's summer sighing, 
It blends with manhood's tears : 

It whispers not of glory. 
Nor fame's unfading youth. 


But perfect in the world above. 


But lingers o'er a story 


Through suffering, wo, and trial here. 


Of young affection's truth. 


Shall glow the undiminished love 


Now let our hymn 


Which clouds and distance failed to sere : 


Float through the aisle. 


But I have Ungered all too long. 


Faintly and dim. 


Thy kind remembrance to engage. 


Where moonbeams smile ; 


And woven but a mournful song. 


Sisters, let our solemn strain 


Wherewith to dim thy page. 


Breathe a blessing o'er the slain ! 



SOPHIA HELEN OLIVER. 



This author was born in Lexington, Ken- 
tucky, in ISll, and in 1837 was married to 
Dr. J. H. Oliver. The next year she removed 
to Louisville, whence after a short time she 
retm-ned to Lexington, and in 1842 she went 



to reside permanently in Cincinnati, in one 
ofthe medical colleges of which city her hus- 
band is a professor. Her poems are spirited 
and fanciful, but are sometimes imperfect in 
rhythm and have other signs of carelessness. 



"I MARK THE HOURS THAT SHINE." 

In fair Italia's lovely land. 

Deep in a garden bower, 
A dial marks with shadowy hand 

Each sun-illumined hour ; 
And on its fair, unsullied face 

Is carved this flowing line, 
(Some wandering bard has paused to trace :) 

" I mark the hours that shine." 
Oh ye who in a friend's fair face 

Mark the defects alone. 
Where many a sweet redeeming grace 

Doth for each fault atone — 
Go, from the speaking dial learn 

A lesson all divine — 
From faults that wound your fancy turn, 

And " mark the hours that shine." 
When bending o'er the glowing page 

Traced by a godlike mind. 
Whose burning thoughts from age to age 

Shall light and bless mankind — 
Why will ye seek mid gleaming gold 

For dross in every line, 
Dark spots upon the sun behold. 

Nor "mark the hours that shine 1" 
Oh ye who bask in Fortune's light, 

Whose cups are flowing o'er. 
Yet through the weary day and night 

Still pine and sigh for more — 
Why will ye, *hen so richly blest, 

UugratefuUy repine. 
Why sigh for joys still unpossessed, 

Nor " mark the hours that shine" 1 
And ye who toil from morn till night 

To earn your scanty bread. 
Are there no blessings rich and bright 

Around your pathway spread 1 
The conscience clear, the cheerful heart. 

The trust in love divine. 
All bid desponding care depart, 

And " mark the hours that shine." 
And ye who bend o'er Friendship's tomb 

In deep and voiceless wo. 
Who sadly feel no second bloom 

Your blighted hearts can know — 
Why will ye mourn o'er severed ties 

While friends around you twine 1 



Go ! yield your lost one to the skies, 
And " mark the hours that shine." 

Deep in the garden of each heart 

There stands a dial fair, 
And often is its snowy chart 

Dark with the clouds of care. 
Then go, and every shadow chase 

That dims its light divine, 
And write upon its gleaming face — 

" I mark the hours that shine." 



THE CLOUD-SHIP. 

Lo ! over Ether's glorious realm 

A cloud ship sails with favoring breeze ; 

A bright form stands beside the helm, 
And guides it o'er the ethereal seas. 

Far streams on air its banner white, 
Its swanlike pinions kiss the gale, 

And now a beam of heaven's light 
With glory gems the snowy sail 

Perchance, bright bark, your snowy breast 
And silver-tissued pinions wide, 

Bear onward to some isle of rest 
Pure spirits in life's furnace tried. 

Oh ! could we stay each swelling sail 
Of spotless radiance o'er thee hung, 

And lift the bright, mysterious veil 
O'er forms of seraph beauty flung — 

How would our spirits long to mount 
And float along the ethereal way. 

To drink of life's unfaihng fount. 

And bathe in heaven's resplendent day ! 

But lo ! the gold-tiara'd West 

Unfolds her sapphire gates of light ; 

While Day's proud monarch bows his crest, 
And bids the sighing world Good-night. 

And now the cloud ship flies along, 
Her wings with gorgeous colors dressed. 

And Fancy hears triumphant song 
Swell from her light-encircled breast — 

As to the wide unfolded gate, 
The brilliant portal of the skies. 

She bears her bright, immortal freight, 
The glorious soul that never dies ! 
214 



SOPHIA HELEN OLIVER. 215 


THE SHADOWS. 


The young, the loved, the cherished, 




M'hose mission early done, 


They are gliding, tliey are gliding, 
O'er the meadows green and gay ; 


In Ufe's bright noontide perished 
Like shadows in the sun. 


Like a fairy troop they 're riding 


The departed, the departed — 


Through the breezy woods away ; 


I greet them with my tears ; 


On the mountain-tops they linger 


The true and gentle-hearted, 


When the sun is sinking low, 


The friends of earlier years. 


And they point with giant finger 


Their wings like sliadows o'er me 


To the sleeping vale below. 


Methinks are spread for aye. 


They are flitting, they are flitting, 
O'er the waving corn and rye, 


Around, behind, before me. 
To guard the devious way. 


And now they 're calmly sitting 


. 




'Neath the oak-tree's branches high. 


MINISTERING SPIRITS. 


And where the tired reaper 




Hath sought the sheltering tree, 


They are winging, they are winging. 


They dance above the sleeper 


Through the thin blue air their way ; 


In light fantastic glee. 


Unseen harps are softly ringing 


, 


Round about us, night and day. 


They are creeping, they are creepmg, 
Over valley, hill, and stream, 

Like the thousand fancies sweeping 
Through a youthful poet's dream. 

Now they mount on noiseless pinions 


Could we pierce the shadows o'er us. 
And behold that seraph band, 

Long-lost friends would bright before us 
In angelic beauty stand. 


With the eagle to the sky — 


Lo I the dim blue mist is sweeping 


Soar along those broad dominions 


Slowly fi'om my longing eyes, 


Where the stars in beauty he. 


And my heart is upward leaping 


They arc dancing, they are dancing. 
Where our country's banner bright 

In the morning beam is glancing 
With its stars and stripes of light; 

And where the glorious prairies 


With a deep and glad surprise. 
I behold them — close beside me. 

Dwellers of the spirit-land ; 
Mists and shades alone divide me 

From that glorious seraph band. 


Spread out like garden bowers, 


Though life never can restore me 


They fly along like fairies, 


My sad bosom's nestling dove. 


Or sleep beneath the flowers. 


Yet my blue-eyed babe bends o'er me 




With her own sweet smile of love ; 


They are leaping, they are leaping. 
Where a cloud beneath the moon 


And the brother, long departed, 


O'er the lake's soft breast is sleeping. 

Lulled by a pleasant tune ; 
And where the fire is glancing 


Who in being's summer died — 
Warm, and true, and gentle-hearted — ■ 
Folds his pinions by my side. 


At twilight through the hall, 


Last called from us, loved and dearest — 


Tall spectre forms are dancing 


Thou the faultless, ti-ied, and true. 


Upon the lofty wall. 


Of all earthly friends sincerest. 




Mother — I behold thee too ! 


They are lying, they are lying. 

Where the solemn yew-tree waves, 

And the evening winds are sighing 
In the lonely place of graves ; 


Lo ! celestial light is gleaming 

Round thy forehead pure and mild. 

And thine eyes with love are beaming 
On thy sad, heart-broken child ! 


And their noiseless feet are creeping 


With slow and stealthy tread, 


Gentle sisters there are bending. 


Where the ancient church is keeping 


Blossoms culled from Ufe's parterre ; 


Its watch above the dead. 


And my father's voice ascending, 




Floats along the charmed air. 


Lo, they follow ! — lo, they follow. 


Hark ! those thrilling tones Elysian 


Or before flit to and fro 


Faint and fainter die away. 


By mountain, stream, or hollow, ^ 


And the bright seraphic vision 


Wherever man may go ! 


Fades upon my sight for aye. 


And never for another 

Will the shadow leave his side — 


But I know they hover round me 


More faithful than a brother, 
Or all the world beside. 


In the morning's rosy light. 
And their unseen forms surround me 
All the deep and solemn night. 


Ye remind me, ye remind me, 


Yes, they 're wmging — yes, they're winging 


Shadows pale and cold ! 


Through the thin blue air their way ; 


That fnends to earth did bind me, 


Spirit-harps are softly ringing 


Now sleeping in the mould ; 


Round about us night and day. 



MARY E. LEE. 



Miss Mary E. Lee, a daughter of Mr. 
William Lee, and niece of the late Judge 
Thomas Lee, of Charleston, South Carolina, 
has been for many years a frequent contribu- 
tor to the literary miscellanies, in both prose 
and verse. Among her best compositions 
are several poems, in the ballad style, found- 



ed on southern traditions, in which she has 
shown dramatic skill, and considerable abil- 
ity in description. One of the best of these 
is the Indian's Revenge, a Legend of Toccoa, 
in Four Parts, printed in the Southern Lit- 
erary Messenger for 1846. Miss Lee is also 
the author of some spirited translations. 



THE POETS. 

The poets — the poets — 

Those giants of the earth : 
In mighty strength they tower above 

The men of common birth • 
A noble race — they mingle not 

Among the motley throng, 
But move, with slow and measured steps, 

To music-notes along. 

The poets — the poets — 

What conquests they can boast ! 
Without one drop of life-Wood spilt. 

They rale a world's wide host ; 
Their stainless banner floats unharmed 

From age to lengthened age ; 
And history records their deeds 

Upon her proudest page. 

The poets — the poets — 

How endless is their fame ! 
Death, like a thin mist, comes, yet leaves 

No shadow on each name ; 
But as yon starry gems that gleam 

In evening's crystal sky. 
So have they won, in memory's depths. 

An imtnortality. 

The poets — the poets — 

Who doth not linger o'er 
The glorious volumes that contain 

Their bright and spotless lore ? 
They charm us in the saddest hours, 

Our richest joys they feed ; 
And love for them has grown to be 

A universal creed. 

The poets — the poets — 

Those kingly minstrels dead. 
Well may we twine a votive wreath 

Around each honored head : 
No tribute is too high to give 

Those crowned ones among men. 
The poets ! the true poets ! 

Thanks be to God for them ! 



AN EASTERN LOVE-SONG. 

Awake, my silver lute ; 

String all thy plaintive wires, 
And as the fountain gushes free. 
So let thy memory chant for me 

The theme that never tires. 

Awake, my liquid voice ; 

Like yonder timorous bird. 
Why dost thoa sing in trembling fear. 
As if by some obtrusive ear 

Thy secret should be heard ? 

Awake, my heart — yet no ! 

As Cedron's golden rill. 
Whose changeless echo singeth o'er 
Notes it had heard long years before, 

So thou art never still. 

My voice ! my lute ! my heart I 

Spring joyously above 
The feeble notes of lower earth, 
And let thy richest tones have birth 

Beneath the touch of love. 



THE LAST PLACE OF SLEEP. 

Lay me not in green wood lone. 
Where the sad wind maketh moan, 
Where the sun hath never shone, 

Save as if in sadness ; 
Nor, I pray thee, let me be 
Buried 'neatli the chill, cold sea. 
Where the waves, tumultuous, free, 

Chafe themselves to madness. 

But in yon enclosure small. 
Near the churchyard's mossy wall, 
Where the dew and sunlight fall, 

I would have my dwelling ; 
Sure there are some friends, I wot, 
Who would make that narrow spot 
Lovely as a garden plot, 

With rich perfumes swelling. 
216 






CATHERINE H. ESLING. 



217 



Let no costly stone be brought, 
Where a stranger's hand hath wrought 
Vain inscription, speaking naught 

To the true affections ; 
But, above tlie quiet bed, 
Where I rest my weary head, 
Plant those buds whose perfumes shed 

Tenderest recollections. 



Then, as every year the tide 

Of strong death bears to my side. 

Those who were by love allied — - 

As the flowers of summer — 
Sweet to think, that from the mould 
Of my body, long since cold, 
Plants of beauty shall enfold 

Every dear new comer. 



CATHERINE H. ESLING. 



Miss Catherine H. Waterman was born 
in Philadelphia, in 1812 ; and under her mai- 
den name she became known as an author by 



many graceful and tender eflFusions in the 
periodicals. In 1840 she was married to 
Mr. Esling, a shipmaster of her native city. 



BROTHER, COME HOME. 

Come home — 
Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep, 
Would I could wing it like a bird to thee, 
To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep 
With these rmwearying words of melody ; 
Brother, come home. 

Come home — 
Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes 

That beam in brightness but to gladden thine ; 
Come where fond thoughts like holiest incense rise, 
Where cherished memory rears her altar's shrine. 
Brother, come home. 

Come home — • 
Come to the hearth-stone of thy earlier days. 

Come to the ark, like the o'erwearied dove ; 
Come with the sunlight of thy heart's warm rays, 
Come to the fireside circle of thy love : 
Brother, come home. 

Come home — 
It is not home without thee : the lone seat 

Is still unclaimed where thou were wont to be. 
In every echo of returning feet, 

In vain we list for what should herald thee : 
Brother, come home. 

Come home — 

We 've nursed for thee the sunny buds of spring, 

Watched every germ the full-blown flowers rear, 

Seen o'er their bloom the chilly winter bring 

Its icy garlands, and thou art not here : 

Brother, come home. 

Come home — 
Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep, 

Would I could wing it like a bird to thee 

To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep 
With these unwearying words of melody : 
Brother, come home ! 



HE WAS OUR FATHER'S DARLING. 

He was our father's darling, 

A bright and happy boy — 
His Hfe was like a summer's day 

Of innocence and joy ; 
His voice, like singing waters, 

Fell softly on the ear, 
So sweet, that hurrying echo 

Might linger long to hear. 

He was our mother's cherub. 

Her life's untarnished light — 
Her blessed joy by morning, 

Her visioned hope by night ; 
His eyes were like the daybeams 

That brighten all below ; 
His ringlets like the gathered gold 

Of sunset's gorgeous glow. 

He was our sister's plaything, 

A very child of glee. 
That frolicked on the parlor floor, 

Scarce higher than our knee ; 
His joyous bursts of pleasure 

Were wild as mountain wind ; 
His laugh, the fi-ee, unfettered laugh 

Of childhood's chainless mind. 

He was our brothers' treasure, 

Tlieir bosom's only pride — 
A fair depending blossom 

By their protecting side : 
A thing to watch and cherish, 

With varying hopes and fears — 
To make the slender, trembling reed 

Their staff for future years. 

He is — -a blessed angel. 

His home is in the sky ; 
He shines among those living lights, 

Beneath his Maker's eye : 
A freshly gathered lily, 

A bud of early doom, 
Hath been transplanted from the earth, 

To bloom beyond the tomb. 



CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 



Caroline M. Fishek, now Mrs. Sawyek, 
was born at the close of the year 1812, in 
Newton, Massachusetts, where she resided 
until her marriage with the Rev. T. J. Saw- 
yer — one of the most eminent scholars and 
divines of theUniversalist denomination — in 
September, 1832, when she removed to the 
city of New York. At the end of about fif- 
teen years Mr. Sawyer was chosen presi- 
dent of the Universalis! seminary at Clinton 
in Oneida county, and of this pleasant vil- 
lage he became a resident, upon his assump- 
tion of the office. 

Mrs. Sawyer was very carefully and thor- 
oughly educated at home, under the care of 
an invalid uncle whose life had been passed 
in pursuits of science and literature. With 
him she became a favorite, and to his early 
apprehension of her abilities and anxiety for 
their full development she is indebted for her 
fine taste and large knowledge, particularly 
in foreign languages and their most celebra- 



ted authors. She commenced the composi- 
tion of verse at an early age, but published 
little until after her marriage. Since then 
she has written much for various reviews 
and other miscellanies, besides several vol- 
umes of tales, sketches, and essays, for chil- 
dren and youth, which would probably have 
been much more generally known if they 
had not come before the public through de- 
nominational channels of publication. She 
has also made numerous translations from 
the best German literature, in prose and verse, 
in which she has evinced a delicate appreci- 
ation of the originals and a fine command of 
her native language. 

The poems of Mrs. Sawyer are numerous 
— sufficient for several volumes — though 
there has been published no collection of 
them. They are serious and of a fresh and 
vigorous cast of thought, occasionally em- 
bodied in forms of the imagination or illus- 
trated by a chaste and elegant fancy. 



THE BLIND GIRI. 

Cnowfr her with garlands ! mid her sunny hair 

Twine the rich blossoms of the laughing May, 
The Uly, snowdrop, and the violet fair. 

And queenly rose, that blossoms for a day. 
Haste, maidens, haste ! the hour brooks no delay — 

The bridal veil of soft transparence bring ; 
And as ye wreathe the gleaming locks away, 

O'er their rich wealth its folds of beauty fling — 
She seeth now I 
Bring forth the lyre of sweet and solemn sound. 

Let its rich music be no longer still ; 
Wake its full chords, till, sweetly floating round, 

Its thrilling echoes all our spirits fill. 
Joy for the lovely ! that her lips no more 

To notes of sorrow tune their trembling breath ; 
Joy for the young, whose starless course is o'er ; 

Id ! sing pffians for the bride of Death ! 

She seeth now ! 
She has been dark ; through all the weary years. 

Since first her spirit into being woke. 
Through those dim orbs that ever swam in tears, 

No ray of sunlight ever yet hath broke. 
Silent and dark ! herself the sweetest flower 

That ever blossomed in an earthly home, 
Unuttered yearnings ever were her dower, [come. 

And voiceless prayers that light at length might 
She seeth now ! 



A lonely lot ! yet oftentimes a sad 

And mournful pleasure filled her heart and brain. 
And beamed in smiles — e'er sweet, but never glad. 

As Sorrow smiles when mourning winds complain. 
Nature's great voice had ever for her soul 

A thrilling power the sightless only know; 
While deeper yearnings through her being stole. 

For light to gild that being's darkened flow. 
She seeth now .' 
Strike the soft harp, then ! for the cloud hath past, 

With all its darkness, from her sight away ; 
Beauty hath met her waiting eyes at last. 

And light is hers within the land of day. 
'Neath the cool shadows of the tree of life. 

Where bright the fount of youth immortal springs, 
Far from this earth, with all its weary strife, 

Her pale brow fanned by shining seraphs' wings, 
She seeth now I 
Ah, yes, she seeth ! through yon misty veil, 

Methinks e'en now her angel-eyes look down. 
While round me falls a light all soft and pale— 

The moonlight lustre of her starry crown ; 
And to my heart, as earthly sounds retire. 

Come the low echoes of celestial words. 
Like sudden music from some haunted lyre, 

Thatstrangely swellswhen none awake its chords. 
But, hush ! 'tis past; the light, the sound, are o'er : 
Joy for the maiden ! she is dark no more ! 

She seedi now ! 
S18 



CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 



219 



INFIDELITY AND RELIGION. 

Two Spirits o'er an open grave were bending, 
Their gaze far down its gloomy chamber sending. 
One, with a brow of stern and cold despair, 
And sable weeds and cypress in his hair, 
Turned not his eyes, so fixed and dark with wo, 
From the cold pit, which fearful yawned below. 
The other stood with garments pure and white 
As deck the dwellers of the land of light: 
Her placid brow was as an angel's fair, 
While calm and joyous was her gentle air ; 
And though within the grave she dropped a tear, 
Her upturned eye was still serene and clear. 

" Tiife !" said the Spuit with the brow of gloom, 
His arm outstretching o'er the gaping tomb — 
" 'T is a deep and sullen river. 

Rolling slowly to the sea. 
There to be engulfed for ever 
In a dark eternity !" 

" Nay," said the shining one, with upturned eye, 
And smile so clear it min'ored back the sky — 
" 'Tis a sunny streamlet gliding 

Gently on to seek its goal ; 
There in God's own bosom hiding — 
Bright and pure, a white-robed soul." 

But the dark Spirit's gloomy voice again 
Doled out in slow and melancholy strain : 
" 'Tis a mournful weed, that groweth 

Lone and friendless in the world, 
Which a ghastly reaper moweth, 
And 'tis to oblivion hurled!" 

" Nay," the bright, gentle one replied once more, 
And softer still the holy smile she wore — 
" 'Tis a starry flower upraising 

Through all ills a trusting eye, 
Evermore its Maker praising — 
Fadmg here to bloom on high !" 

Slowly the dark one sunk his gloomy brow, 
As once again he murmured sad and low r 
*' 'Tis a storm, for ever sweeping 
O'er a bleak and barren heath ; 
Tossing, surging, never sleeping. 
Till it lull in endless death !" 

" Nay !" and the hoping Spirit's hands were prest 
In meek and holy rapture to her breast — 
" 'T is a friendly rain, that showers 

On a fair and pleasant land. 
Where the darkest cloud that lowers 
By the rainbow still is spanned !" 
Stern was the gaze of sorrow and despair 
That now was fixed upon the Spirit fair, 
As, a last time, the hopeless waller's burst 
Of anguish came more drear than e'en at first : 
" 'T is a haunting vision, blended 
Evermore with tears and pain : 
'T is a dream, that best were ended ; 
Life is false, and life is vain !" 

Ceased the dark Spirit — and a sable cloud 
O'er his set features folded like a shroud ; 
Then slowly sank, as sinks the dying wave, 
In the dark chambers of the yawning grave. 



Silently closed the damp turf o'er his head, 
And the stern Spirit, like the mortal dead, 
Came not again fi-om out his gloomy bed ! 

" Life !" said the shining one, as, stretching forth 
Her long, fair arms, she blessed the teeming earth — 
" Life is true, and life is real ! 

Life has worthy deeds for all ; 
'Tis no vain and false ideal. 

Ending with the shroud and pall. 
Up and do, then, dreaming mortal ! 

With a strong heart toil away ; 
Earth has cares, but heaven a portal 

Opening up to endless day !" 

She paused, and o'er her pure and spotless breast 
Drew the soft drapery of her snowy, vest ; 
Her long, fan" arms extended yet once more 
To bless the earth she oft had blessed before ; 
Then turned away to pour her heavenly light 
In genial floods where all were else but night. 

Still dwells she here, that child of heavenly birth — 
Soothing the sorrows of the sons of earth ; 
Drying the tears that dim the mourner's eye ; 
Gently subduing Grief's desponding sigh ; 
Winging with rapture e'en the parting breath. 
And wreathing smiles around the lips of Death ! 

Blest be her path along life's rugged way ! 
Blest be her smiles which light the darkest day ! 
And blest the tears that, trusting still, she weeps, 
Where the dark Spirit yet in silence sleeps ! 



THE VALLEY OE PEACE. 

It w,\9 a beautiful conception of tbe Moravians to givR to rural cemete- 
ries tlie appropriate name of " Valleya" or " Fieliia of Peace." 

Oh, come, let us go to the "Valley of Peace ! 

There earth's weary cares to perplex us shall cease ; 

We will stray through its soleurn and far-spreading 
shades. 

Tin twilight's last ray from each green hillock fades. 

There slumber the friends whom we long must re- 
gret— 

The forms whose mild beauty we can not forget ; 

We will seek the low mounds where so softly they 
sleep. 

And will sit down and muse on the idols we weep : 

But we will not repine that they're hid from our 
eyes. 

For we know they still live in a home in the skies ; 

But we'll pray that, when hfe's weaty journey 
shall cease. 

We may slumber with them in the Valley of Peace ! 

Oh, sad were our path through this valley of tears 
If when weary and wasted with toil and with years 
No home were prepared where the pilgrim might 
Mortality's cumbering vestments away! [lay 

But sadder, and deeper, and darker the gloom. 
That would close o'er our way as we speed to the 
If Faith pointed not to that heavenly goal, [tomb, 
Where the Sun of eternity beams on the soul ! 
Oh, who, mid the sorrows and changes of time. 
E'er dreamed of that holier, that happier clime, 



220 



CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 



But yearned for the hour of the spirit's release — 
For a pillow of rest in the Valley of Peace ! 
Oh come, thou pale mourner, whose sorrowing gaze 
Seems fixed on the shadows of long-vanished days, 
Sad, sad is thy tale of bereavement and wo, 
And thy spirit is weary of life's garish show ! 
Come here : I will show thee a haven of rest, 
Where sorrow no longer invades the calm breast ; 
Where the spirit throws off its dull mantle of care, 
And the robe is ne'er folded o'er secret despair ! 
Yet the dwelling is lonely, and silent, and cold, 
And the soul may shrink back as its portals unfold ; 
But a bright Star has dawned through the shades 

of the east. 
That will light up with beauty the Valley of Peace ! 

Thou frail child of error ! come hither and say, 
Has the world yet a charm that can lure thee to 
Ah, no ! in thine aspect are anguish and wo, [stay ? 
And deep shame has written its name on thy brow. 
Pool outcast ! too long hast thou wandered forlorn. 
In a path where thy feet are all gored with the thorn ; 
Where thy breast by the fang of the serpent is stung, 
And scorn on thy head by a cold world is flung ! 
Come here, and find rest from thy guilt and thy tears. 
And a sleep sweet as that of thine innocent years ; 
We will spread thee a couch where thy woes shall 

all cease ; 
Oh, come and lie down in the Valley of Peace ! 

The grave, ah, the grave ! 't is a mighty stronghold. 
The weak, the oppressed, all are safe in its fold : 
There Penury's toil-wasted children may come. 
And the helpless, the houseless, at last find a home. 
What myriads unnumbered have sought its repose, 
Since the day when the sun on creation first rose ; 
And there, till earth's latest, dread morning shall 

break. 
Shall its wide generations their last dwelling make : 
But beyond is a world — how resplendently bright ! 
And all that have lived shall be bathed in its light. 
We shall rise — we shall soar where earth's sorrows 

shall cease. 
Though our mortal clay rests in the Valley of 

Peace ! 



THE BOY AND HIS ANGEL. 

" Oh, mother, I've been with an angel to-day ! 
I was out, all alone, in the forest at play. 
Chasing after the butterflies, watching the bees, 
And hearing the woodpecker tapping the trees; 
So I played, and I played, till, so weary I grew, 
I sat down to rest in the shade of a yew, 
While the birds sang so sweetly high up on its top, 
I held my breath, mother, for fear they would stop. 
Thus a long while I sat, looking up to the sky. 
And watching the clouds that went hurrying hy, 
When I'heard a voice calling just over my head, 
That sounded as if ' Come, oh brother !' it said ; 
And there, right over the top of the tree, 
mother, an angel was beckoning to me ! 

" And, ' Brother,' once more, ' come, oh brother !' 

he cried, 
And flew on light pinions close down by my side ; 



And mother, oh, never was being so bright 
As the one which then beamed on my wondering 
His face was as fair as the delicate shell, [sight ! 
His hair down his shoulders in fair ringlets fell. 
While his eyes resting on me, so melting with love, 
Were as soft and as mild as the eyes of a dove. 
And somehow, dear mother, I felt not afraid, 
As his hand on my brow he caressingly laid. 
And murmured so softly and gently to me, 
' Come, brother, the angels are waituig for thee !' 

" And then on my forehead he tenderly pressed 
Such kisses — oh, mother, they thriUed through my 

breast, 
'As swiftly as lightning leaps down from on high. 
When the chariot of God rolls along the black sky ; 
While his breath, floating round me, was soft as 

the breeze 
That played in my tresses, and rustled the trees ; 
At last on my head a deep blessing he poured. 
Then plumed his bright pinions and upward he 

soared — 
And up, up he went, through the blue sky, so far. 
He seemed to float there Uke a glittering star. 
Yet still my eyes followed his radiant flight, 
Till, lost in the azure, he passed from my sight. 
Then, oh how I feared, as I caught the last gleam 
Of his vanishing form, it was only a dream — ■ 
When soft voicesmurmuredonce more from the tree, 
' Come, brother, the angels are waiting for thee !' " 

Oh, pale grew that mother, and heavy her heart, 
For she knew her fair boy from this world must 

depart ; 
That his bright locks must fade in the dust of the 

tomb. 
Ere the autumn winds withered the summer's rich 

bloom. 
Oh, how his young footsteps she watched, day by 

day, 
As his delicate form wasted slowly away. 
Till the soft light of heaven seemed shed o'er his face. 
And he crept up to die in her loving embrace ! 
" Oh, clasp me, dear mother, close, close to your 
On that gentle pillow again let me rest ; [breast ; 
Let me once more gaze up to that dear, loving eye, 
And then, oh, methinks, I can wilUngly die. 
Now kiss me, dear mother — oh, quickly — for see, 
The bright, blessed angels are waiting for me !" 

Oh, wild was the anguish that swept through her 

breast. 
As the long, frantic kiss on his pale lips she pressed. 
And felt the vain search for his soft, pleading eye, 
As it strove to meet hers ere the fair boy could die. 
" I see you not, mother, for darkness and night 
Are hiding your dear, loving face from my sight ; 
But I hear your low sobbings : dear mother, good 
The angels are ready to bear me on high. [by ! 
I will wait for you there ; but, oh, tarry not long, 
Lest grief at your absence should sadden my song !" 
He ceased, and his hands meekly clasped on his 

breast, 
While his sweet face sank down on its pillow of 

rest; 
Then closing his eyes, now all rayless and dim. 
Went up with the angels that waited for him. 



CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 



221 



THE LADY OF LURLEL* 

A LEGEND OF THE KHIXE. 

" Seest thou the lady on yonder steep, 

Whose crags beetle over the billowy deep 1 

Her robes of the sea-green waves are wove, 

And her e3'es are blue as the skies above : 

Her golden tresses, like sunlight, roam 

O'er a neck more pure than the \^Teathing foam. 

As her long white arms on the breeze she flings. 

And in sweet, low, silvery accents sings 

To the still, gray morning her strange wild lay — 

Away, to the lady, good boatman, away !" 

A film crept over the boatman's sight, 

And his arm grew weak, and his cheek grew white, 

As he saw the lady poised high in air, 

With her sea-green robes and her flowing hair ! 

"Sir knight, 'twould peril our lives to ride. 

In the stanchest boat, o'er this surging tide. 

When yon wild lady at morn is seen 

On Lurlei's cliff, with her robes of green ! 

Beware ! for evil befalls the knight 

Who dares to wish for a nearer sight !" 

" Go, preach thy fears to the timid girl, 
Or the craven coward, thou trembling churl ! 
The knight who the shock of an hundred fields 
Has borne, to no fancied danger yields : 
Then over the waves, with thy bounding skiff. 
To the strange bright lady of Lurlei's clifl'; 
And take, as thy guerdon, this golden chain — 
For me, none peril their lives in vain !" 

He took the chain, and he spake no more. 

But his strong arm shook, as he grasped the oar. 

And gave his bark to the rolling deep. 

To feny the knight to the fatal steep ! 

The skies grew black, and the winds blew high. 

And ominous birds flew shrieking by. 

And roaring surges piled up the strand 

With a terrible wall as they nearcd the land. 

" Back, hack I" the boatman with white lips cried, 

" Nor dare thus madly this fearful tide !" 

But the brave knight turned with a dauntless brow. 

And, boldly spurning the graceful prow, 

Plunged fearlessly over the light skiff's side, 

And eagerly breasted the foaming tide ! 

Strange faces arose to his troubled eye. 

As the whirling waters swept wUdly by — 

Fierce voices hissed in his failing ear. 

And his stout frame trembled, but not with fear. 

For his breath he held and his arm he strained. 

Till the waves were passed and the shore was gained. 

Then, swiftly scaling the steep ascent. 

Before the lady he breathless bent ! 

He laid his head on her bosom fair, 
His fingers toyed with her golden hair — 
While " Mine for ever," she wildly sung. 
As round him her long white arms she flung ! 
" Bold knight, come down in the sunless deep, 
Where peris warble and naiads sleep — ■ 
Come down and dwell with the ocean-maid, 
Where the blight ne'er falls and the flowers ne'er 
fade !" 

* Lurlei ia the name of a rocky cliff on the shores of 
the Khine. 



She pressed her lips to his glowing cheek. 
She lured him along the dangerous peak — 
One moment they stood on the dizzy verge — 
The next, sank down 'neath the sounding surge ! 

The winds were hushed, and the waves were laid, 
And insects small in the sunbeams played — 
The boat returned to the distant shore. 
But the knight and the lady were seen no more ! 



THE WIFE'S REMONSTRANCE. 

Oh, why are you sad when all others are gay 1 

Is earth darker now than in life's early day ? 

Is the kind hand withdrawn that upheld us of 

yore. 
Or the bright, laughing sunshine around us no 

more 1 
No : earth is still smiling, and nature is clad 
In all her old beauty — then why art thou sad ? 

True, some fiiends, grown faithless, seem cold and 

estranged. 
But others are left us whose love is unchanged — ■ 
Whose hearts, through all seasons of good and 

of ill, 
Like the ivy around us cling faithfully still : 
Let us cherish them deep in our hearts, and be 

glad, 
For oh, with such blessings how can we be sad ! 

You say we are poor ! — ah, I have not forgot 
That to struggle with fortune is ofttimes our lot; 
But think you that we are less happy than they 
Who drag on mid splendor their wearisome day 1 
For their wealth would you barter the bliss we 

have had ? 
Oh no ! then what need have our hearts to be sad 1 

Why fear for the future 1 — -for nine years or more 
We have managed to keep the gaunt wolf from 

our door ; 
And why, in the days yet to come, should our 

state, 
Though humble, be marked by a gloomier fate 1 
Let us give God our thanks for the past, and be 

glad- 
How much more need have others, than we, to be 

sad ! 

I know there are seasons when, strive as we will, 
Presentiment whispers for ever of ill ; 
There are dark-boding visions of trouble and pain. 
That lurk in the heart till they madden the brain ! 
Wo, wo for that bosom ! it can not be glad — 
Oh God, shield us well firom such cause to be 
sad ! 

Let us humbly hope on — and if dark be our way. 
Remember that night is e'er followed by day ; 
Though tempests and wliirlwinds may rage through 

the skies. 
They will pass, and the sunbeams again meet our 

eyes: 
Let our hearts and our brows, then, in sunshine 

be clad. 
For God made us not to be gloomy and sad ! 



232 



CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 



MY SLEEPING CHILDREN. 

Ye sleep, my children ! On your soft, blue eyes — 
Those eyes that once, like summer sunlight glancing, 
From morn till eve with joy seemed ever dancing, 
A mournful slumber lies ! 

Ye sleep, but I — I vpake to watch your rest ; 
Yet not as erst, when, round your temples wreathing, 
The light locks stirred at every gentle breathing 
From your full, quiet breast. 
No more my finger on my lips I lay, 
Lest some rude sound,some sudden footstep — -jarring 
Your little couch, and thehushed stillness marring — 
Should chase your sleep away. 

Ah, no ! the winds go moaning o'er your heads. 
And the sweet dryads of the valley, winging 
In airy circles, wild, shrill strains are singing 
Above your grassy beds ! 

But ye awake not — they disturb not now : 
And a vain gush of childlike grief comes o'er me. 
As the dread memory, sudden sweeps before me, 
That death is on your brow ! 

Oh, precious ones ! that seemed too fair to die — 
My soft-eyed Mary, child of seraph sweetness : 
Bright vision, vanished with a shadow's fleetness — 
Why hast thou left me 1 — why 1 

Wert weary, gentle dove, of this cold world 1 
And didst thou long to rest thy little pinions 
Far in those bright and beautiful dominions, 
Where they at last are furled 1 

Wert homesick, darling ^ Could thy little heart 
Yearn for a love more tender than we bore thee — 
Yearn for a watch more fond and faithful o'er thee, 
That thou shouldst hence depart ] 

That thou shouldst hence, and leave meherebeliind 
To fold thy little robes in silent anguish — 
To dry my tears, then weep again — to languish 
For what I can not find ! 

Had my low cradle-song no longer charms — 
That cradle-song whose soft and plaintive numbers 
Lulled thee each evening to thy peaceful slumbers — 
To keep thee in my arms 

And thou, my boy ! my beautiful — my own ! 
Twin cherub of the one who stands beside me. 
Grieving that we within the earth should hide thee. 
And leave thee all alone — 

Grieving that thou canst play with him no more ; 
That, though his tears upon thy grave are faUing, 
Thy voice replies not to his mournful calling — 
Unheeded ne'er before ! 

Did the sweet cup of life already cloy, 
That from thy lips, ere scarcely it was tasted — 
Ere from its brim one sparkling gleam was wasted. 
Thou laidst it down, my boy ? 

Nay, wherefore question 1 To my pleading vain. 
No voice to still my spirit's restless yearning — 
No sweet reply, to soothe my heart's deep burmng, 
Comes from your graves again ! 

Ye were — ye art not ! Thus earth's bloom decays : 
I watch the flowers 'neath Autumn's footstep dying, 



Yet know the spring-breath, through the valleys 
Each from its tomb will raise ! [sighing, 

But ye — oh ye ! though soft the vernal rain. 
The sweet spring showers stern winter's chain dis- 
solving — 
May round you fall earth's loveliest flowers evolving. 
Ye will not bloom again ! 

Though by the streams, and all the meadows o'er. 
Mid woods and dells, the south's gay clarion ringing. 
May peal, till life is everywhere upspringing. 
Ye — ye will wake no more ! 

Nay, ye will wake ! not here, not here — but there, 
In heaven ! Oh, there ye bloom e'en now — where 

never 
Falls the chill blight, and each sweet flower for ever 

Lives beautiful and fair ! 

There shall I find you — stainless, pure, and bright, 
As the pure seraph-eyes, whose myriad numbers 
Are watching now, above your peaceful slumbers. 
From the far zenith's height : 

There shall I clasp you to my heart once more. 
And feel your cheeks mine own with rapture pres- 
sing. 
Till all my being thrills with your caressing. 
And all its pain is o'er ! 

Dear ones, sleep on ! A low, mysterious tone, 
Solemn yet sweet, my spirit's ear is filling — 
Each wilder grief within my bosom stilling. 
And hushing sorrow's moan. 

It tells me that, no shadow on your brow. 
Far from the clouds that closely round me gather. 
Clasped on the bosom of the Good All-Father, 
Ye 're blest and happy now. 

Ay, blest and happy ! never more shall tears 
Dim those sweet eyes ; temptation ne'er shall round 

you 
Wind its dark coils, nor guilt nor falsehood wound 
Through all your endless years. [you. 

Farewell awhile ! Ye were my heart's delight — ■ 
Ye were sweet stars, my spirit's clouds dissolving. 
Round which my heart was evermore revolving. 
Like some fond satellite. 

Ah, well I loved you — but I yield you up. 
Without one murmur, at my Father's calling ; 
With childlike trust, though fast my tears are falling, 
I drink the bitter cup. 

I drink — for He, whom angels did sustain 
In the dread hour when mortal anguish met him, 
When friends forgot, and deadly foes beset him, 
Stands by to soothe my pain. 

I drink — for thou, God, preparedst the draught 
Which to my lips thy Father-band is pressing : 
I know 'neath ills oft lurks the deepest blessing — 
Father, the cup is quatfed ! 

'Tis quaffed — and now, O Father, I restore 
The little children thou in mercy sent me : 
Sweet blessings were they, for a season lent me — 
Take back thine own once more ! 

Yet, oh, forget not, Lord, thy child is weak : 
The dregs are bitter which my lips are draining. 



CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 



223 



And my faint heart hath need of thy sustaining — 
Father, thy child is weak ! 

Yet, take thine own ! their souls are innocent — 
Their little lives were beautiful and blameless : 
I bring them back to thee, pure, white, and stainless, 
E'en as when they were lent. 

Keep them, and make them each a shining gem 
Mid the bright things which fill the bowers of heaven, 
Till my soul, too, shall soar, earth's fetters riven, 
Home — home, to thee and them ! 



LAKE MAHOPAC. 

liAKE of the soft and sunny hills, 

What loveliness is thine ! 
Around thy fair, romantic shore. 

What countless beauties shine ! 
Shrined in their deep and hollow urn, 

Thy silver waters lie — 
A mirror set in waving gems 

Of many a regal dye. 

Like angel faces in a dream. 

Bright isles upon thy breast. 
Veiled in soft robes of hazy light, 

In such sweet silence rest — 
The rustle of a bird's light wing, 

The shiver of the trees. 
The chime of waves — are all the sounds 

That freight the summer breeze. 

Oh, beautiful it is along 

Thy silver wave to glide, 
And watch the ripples as they kiss 

Our tiny vessel's side ; 
While ever round the dipping oar 

^Vliite curls the feathery spray. 
Or, firom its bright suspended point, 

Drips tinklingly away. 

And pleasant to the heart it is 

In those fair isles to stray. 
Or Fancy's idle visions weave 

Through all the golden day, 
Where dark old trees, around whose stems 

Caressing woodbines cling. 
O'er mossy, flower-enamelled banks. 

Their trembling shadows fling. 

Oh, he who in his daily paths 

A weary spirit bears. 
Here in these peaceful solitudes 

May he lay down his cares ; 
No echo from the restless world 

Shall his repose invade. 
Where the spectres of the haunted heart 

By Nature's self are laid. 

I stood upon thy shore, fair lake ! 

Long parted was the day. 
And shadows of the eventide 

Upon the waters lay ; 
But from the sky the silver moon, 

All radiant and serene, 
Attended by eve's dewy star. 

Smiled sweetly o'er the scene. 



The earth was mute — no sound, save mine 

Own beating heart, I heard. 
When suddenly the listening air 

Wilh melody was stirred : 
The low, faint chime of lapsing waves. 

The voice of whispering boughs. 
Waked by the night-winds gentle touch. 

In mingled sweetness rose. 
Oh, dear and hallowed was that hour : 

O'er being's troubled tide 
Still waters of eternal peace 

Seemed solemnly to glide. 
Whose anthems, deep, subdued, and low. 

Through all my throbbing soul. 
Like breathings fi-om a brighter world. 

In pleading murmurs stole. 
Oh, dear and hallowed was the hour ! 

Along life's mazy track. 
An angel from the paths of ill 

Hath ofttimes lured me back ; 
It watched above me at my birth. 

It led me when a child. 
And here, beside the moonlit waves, 

Once more upon me smiled. 
Lake of the hills I around me yet 

I feel thy magic spell — 
Still, still by Fancy led, I pace 

Thy dreamy island dell ; 
The sere leaves, rustling to my tread. 

Are heaped upon the ground, 
And the graves of long, long centuries 

Lie thickly clustering round. 
'T was hither, old traditions tell, 

The Indian of yore 
Forth from the peopled haunts of life 

His dead in silence bore. 
And, trenching reverently the sod. 

Within earth's loving breast. 
With his bow and arrows by his side. 

Here laid hira down to rest. 
Fit place of sepulture ! tall trees 

In columned arches rise. 
Through whose thick-woven boughs steal down 

Soft glimpses of the skies. 
Amid their leaves, like spirit strains, 

^oUan sounds awake. 
And o'er the long-forgotten dead 

A solemn requiem make. 
Ah, peace ! while on this rocky seat 

Myself once more I cast, 
And people all the island shades 

With phantoms of the past. 
Till from the grand old beetluig rocks. 

That far above me fi'own, 
A thousand dusky faces gaze 

In mournful silence down. 
They gaze — while in their troubled hearts 

Wild memories seem to lie. 
And fearful meanings darkly flit 

O'er many a burning eye ; 
Pale warriors lift their folded hands 

In mute, appealing prayer. 
Then clasp them o'er their silent breasts, 

In deep and still despair ! 



224 



CAROLINE M. SAWYER. 



But, see — those sternly-lifted brows! 

Quick change comes o'er my dream : 
Each phantom form is flashing now 

With strange and sudden gleam ; 
Swift feathery arrows cleave the air, 

From coppice, trees, and rocks. 
And the wild glen hisses to the paths 

Of hurtling tomahawks ! 

I start — I clutch the air — and lo ! 

My fearful dream is o'er ; 
Kind human voices call me back 

To the bright world once more — 
Kind, faithful hands, that grasp mine own, 

Conduct me from the dell : 
One last, one lingering gaze on thee — 

Thou place of graves, fareweU ! 

Lake of the hills ! my song has ceased ; 

But should my feet no more 
Thread thy fair island glades, or pace 

Thy richly varying shore, 
A memory lives within my breast, 

That, wheresoe'er I be. 
As the heavens are mirrored by thy wave. 

Will ever mirror thee ! 



THE WARRIOR'S DIRGE. 

Wahhioii, rest : thy toils are ended — 

Life's last fearful strife is o'er ; 
Clarion calls, with death-notes blended, 

Shall disturb thine ear no more. 
Peaceful is thy dreamless slumber — 

Peaceful — but how cold and stern ! 
Thou hast joined that silent number 

In the land whence none return. 

Warrior, rest : thy banner o'er thee 

Hangs in many a drooping fold ; 
Many a manly cheek before thee 

Stained with tear-drops we behold. 
Thine was not a hand to falter, 

When thy sword should leave its sheath ; 
Thine was not a cheek to alter. 

Though thy duty led to death. 

Warrior, rest : a dirge is knelling 

Solemnly ftom shore to shore ; 
'Tis a nation's tribute, telling 

That a patriot is no more. 
Thou, where Freedom's sons have striven, 

Firm and bold, didst foremost stand ; 
Freely was thy Ufe-blood given 

For thy home and fatherland. 

Wan-ior, rest : our star is vanished 

That to victory led the way. 
And from one lone hearth is banished 

All that cheered life's weary day ; 
There thy young bride weeps in sorrow 

That no more she hears thy tread — 
That the night which knows no morrow 

Darkly veils thy laurelled head. 

Warrior, rest : we smooth thy pillow 
For thy last, long earthly sleep ; 



Oh, beneath yon verdant willow 

Storms unheard will o'er thee sweep. 

There, 'tis done I — thy couch awaits thee- 
Softly down thy head we lay ; 

Here repose, till God translates thee 
From the dust to endless day ! 



REUNION. 

Nat, pause not yet ! another strain — 

A strain to bid the spirit start — 
Glad songs for those who meet again, 

And blend together heart with heart ! 
Give to the winds each anxious thought 

Which o'er our bliss a shade might cast ; 
These hours, by weary absence bought. 

Should be all sunshine to the last. 

What though we part again to-morrow. 

For years, perhaps, no more to meet 7 
We will not of the future borrow 

One pang to mar an hour so sweet. 
Swell high the strain, then ! let our souls 

With mirth and gayety be filled. 
And brightly, as each moment rolls, 

Be drops of ecstasy distilled ! 

Hush, hark ! amid our rapture now, 

What strange, low,sorrowing tone comesnearl 
Why steals a shadow o'er each brow. 

And through each mirthful smile a tear ? 
Alas ! the spirit can not brook 

The voice of careless glee to-day, 
But, from each thoughtless word and look, 

Turns, sick and shuddering, away. 

Oh, hush the song ! lest feeling's tide 

Grow mightier than may be controlled : 
Then calmly seated, side by side, 

Each other's hand we'll fondly hold. 
Linger a Uttle longer yet, 

And breathe your sweet words o'er mine ear; 
Oh, I can die — but ne'er forget 

This hour, so beautiful and dear ! 



PEBBLES. 

GrvE me the pebble, little one, that I 
To yon bright pool may hurtle it away : 
Look! how' t has changed the azure wave to gray, 

And blotted out the image of the sky ! 

So, when our spirits calm and placid lie — , 
When all the passions of the bosom sleep, 
And from its stirless and unruffled deep 

Beams up a heaven as bright as that on high. 
Some pebble — envy, jealousy, misdoubt — ■ 

Dashed in our bosom's slumbering waves to jar, 
Will cloud the mirrored surface of the soul. 
And blot its heaven of joy and beauty out. 

Sin ! fling no pebble in my soul, to mar 
Its solemn depths, and o'er it clouds to roll ! 



MARGARET L. BAILEY. 



Mks. Bailet is a daughter of the Rev. 
Thomas Shands, and was born in Sussex 
county, Virginia, on the twelfth of Decem- 
ber, 1812. When she was about six years 
of age, her father removed to the West ; and 
in 1833 she was married to Mr. G-. Bailey, 
junior, subsequently editor of the Cincinnati 
Philanthropist, then of the Cincinnati Morn- 
ing Herald, and now of the National Era, at 
Washington. In March, 1844, Mrs. Bailey 
became editress of The Youth's Monthly 
Visiter, at Cincinnati, and conducted it, with 
a circulation which arose to some three thou- 



sand copies, until her removal to the District 
of Columbia, near the close of 1846. This 
periodical was perhaps the first of its class 
ever published in the country, and its con- 
tents justify the critical opinion of Mr. Wil- 
liam D. Gallagher, that Mrs. Bailey is one 
of the ablest women of the age. 

The poems of Mrs. Bailey have appeared 
in the journals edited by herself and her 
husband, and there has been no collected edi- 
tion of them. They have less individuality 
than her prose, but they are informed with 
fancy and a just understanding. 



LIFE'S CHANGES. 

A LITTLE child on a sunny day, 
Sat on a flowery bank at play ; 
The gentle breath of the summer air 
Waved the curls of her golden hair, 
And ever her voice rang merrily out 
In a careless laugh or a joyous shout. 

Beautiful was she as early mom. 
When the dew is fresh on the blossoming thorn ; 
And methought as I looked on her fair young face, 
Beaming with beauty and truth and grace, 
How cold and heartless the world must be, 
That could sully such spotless purity ! 

Years rolled by : in her maiden pride 
She stood, a gentle and trusting bride — 
How beautiful still ! though a softening shade 
O'er the dazzling hue of that beauty played. 
While the tender glance of her soft blue eye 
Told of a love that could not die : 
And I prayed as I gazed on her placid brow. 
Pure as a wreath of new-fallen snow, 
That sorrow, the sorrow that comes to all. 
Lightly and gently on her might fall. 

Again I saw her : Time had been there. 
Tipping with silver her golden hair; 
He had breathed on her cheek, and its rosy hue 
Was gone, but her heart was pure and true, 
As when first I met her a budding flower, 
Or a gentle maid in her bridal hour. 
As mother and wife she had borne her part, 
With the faith and hope of a lo^g heart ; 
And now when nature, with years opprest, 
Looks and longs for her quiet rest. 
With holy trust in her Father's love. 
Awaiting a summons from above. 
She lingers with us, as if to show 
To the faint and weary ones below, 
How oft to the faithful soul 'tis given 
To taste on earth of the joys of heaven. 



THE PAUPER CHILD'S BURIAL. 

Stretched on a rude plank the dead pauper lay : 
No weeping friends gathered to bear him away ; 
His white, slender fingers were clasped on his breast, 
The pauper child meekly lay taking his rest. 

The hair on his forehead was carelessly parted ; 
No one cared for him, the desolate hearted ; 
In life none had loved him — his pathway, all sear 
Had not one sweet blossom its sadness to cheer. 

No fond, gentle mother had ever caressed him, 
In tones of affection and tenderness blessed him ; 
For ere his eye greeted the light of the day. 
His mother had passed in her anguish away. 

Poor little one ! often thy meek eyes have sought 
The smile of affection, of kindness unbought. 
And wistfully gazing, in wondering surprise. 
That no one beheld thee with pitying eyes. 

And when in strange gladness thy young voice was 

heard. 
As in winter's stern sadness the song of a bird, 
Harsh voices rebuked thee, and, cowering in fear, 
Thy glad song was hushed in a sob and a tear. 

And when the last pang rent thy heartstrings in 

twain. 
And burst from thy bosom the last sign of pain, 
No gentle one soothed thee, in love's melting tone, 
With fond arm around thee in tenderness thrown. 

Stern voices and cold mingled strange in thine ear 
With the songs of the angels the dying may hear ; 
And thrillingly tender, amid Death's alarms. 
Was thy mother's voice welcoming thee to her arms. 

Thy fragile form, wi-apped in its coarse shroud, 

reposes 
In slumbers as sweet as if pillowed on roses ; 
And while on thy coffin the rude clods are pressed, 
The goodShepherd folds the shorn lamb to his breast. 



226 



MARGARET L. BAILEY. 



MEMORIES. 

Oh, pleasant are the memories 

Of childhood's forest home. 
And oft, amid the toils of life, 

Like blessed dreams they come : 

Of sunset hours when I lay entranced, 

Mid shadows cool and green. 
Watching the winged insects glance, 
In summer's golden sheen : 

Their drowsy hum was a lullaby 

To Nature's quiet sleeping, 
While o'er the meadow's dewy breast 

The evening wmds were creeping : 

The ploughman's whistle heard afar, 
To his humble home returning ; 

And faintly in the gathering shade 
The firefly's lamp was burning. 

Up in the old oak's pleasant shade, 
Wliere mossy branches swing, 

With gentle twitterings, soft and low, 
NestUng with fluttering wing^— 

Were summer birds — their tender notes 
Like love's own fond caressing. 

When a mother folds her little flock. 
With a whispered prayer and blessing. 

The cricket chirps from the hollow tree. 

To the music of the rill. 
And plaintively echoes through the wood 

The song of the whip-poor-will. 

Tinged with the last faint light of day, 

A white cloud in the west 
Floats in the azure sea above. 

Like a ship on ocean's breast. 

The evening star as a beacon shmes 

On the far horizon's verge, 
And the wind moans through the distant pines. 

Like the troubled ocean's surge. 

From lowly vales the rising mist 

Curls up the hillside green, 
And its summit, 'twixt the earth and sky. 

Like a fairy isle is seen. 

Away in the depths of ether shine 

The stars serenely bright — 
Gems in the glorious diadem, 

Cucllng the brow of night. 

Our Father ! if thy meaner works 

Thus beautifnl appear. 
If such revealings of thy love 

Enkindle rapture here — 

If to our mortal sense thou dost 

Thy treasures thus unfold. 
When death shall rend this earthly veil, 

How shall our eyes behold 

Thy glory — when the spirit soars 

Beyond the starry zone, 
And in thy presence folds her wing. 

And bows before thy throne ! 



ENDURANCE. 

Wheh-, upon wings of rainbow hues, 

Hope flits across thy pathway here, 
And gently as the morning breeze 

Her waving pinion dries thy tear. 
Oh, yield not all thy soul to joy. 

Let not her blandishments allure : 
Life's greenest spot hath withered flowers — 

Whate'er thy lot, thou must endure. 

If, on the mountain's topmost cliiT, 

The flag of victory seems unfurled. 
And Faith, exulting, sees afar 

Earth's idol, Error, downward hurled. 
Deem not the triumph thou shalt share — 

God keeps his chosen vessels pure : 
The final reckoning is on high. 

On earth thy meed is to endure. 

With chastened heart, in humble faith. 

Thy labor earnestly pursue. 
As one who fears to such frail deeds 

No recompense is due : 
Wax not faint-hearted — while thou toil'st. 

Thy bread and water shall be sure ; 
Leaving all else to God, be thou 

Patient in all things to endure. 



DUTY AND REWARD. 

EvEBT day hath toil and trouble. 

Every heart hath care : 
Meekly bear thine own full measure, 

And thy brother's share. 

Fear not, shrink not, though the burden 

Hea^y to thee prove ; 
God shall fill thy mouth with gladness, 

And thy heart with love. 

Patiently enduring, ever 

Let thy spirit be 
Bound by links, that can not sever. 

To humanity. 

Labor — wait ! thy Master perished 

Ere his task was done ; 
Count not lost thy fleeting moments. 

Life hath but begun. 

Labor ! and the seed thou sowest 

Water with thy tears ; 
God is faithful — he will give thee 

Answer to thy prayers. 

Wait in hope ! though j'et no verdure 

Glad thy longing eyes, 
Thou shalt see the ripened harvest 

Garnered in the slues. 

Labor — wait I though midnight shadows 

Gather round thee here. 
And the storms above thee lowering 

Fill thy heart with fear — 

Wait in hope : the morning dawneth 

When the night is gone. 
And a peaceful rest awaits thee 

When thy work is done. 



1>AURA M. THURSTON. 



L ATJKA M. Hatvlet, afterward Mrs. Thurs- 
ton, was born in Norfolk, Connecticut, in De- 
cember, 1812. She completed her education 
in the Hartford Female Seminary, and sub- 
sequently was a teacher in Hartford and New 
Blilford, Connecticut, in Philadelphia, and in 
New Albany, Indiana. In the latter place 
she was married, in September, 1839, to Mr. 
Franklin Thurston, a merchant ; and surren- 



dering the school of which she had been the 
principal, to other hands, she resided there 
until her death, which occurred on the twen- 
ty-first of July, 1842. Under the signature 
of " Viola" Mrs. Thurston had made herself 
known by many productions marked by feel- 
ing and a melodious versification, which were 
for the most part originally published in the 
Louisville Journal. 



THE GREENHILLS OF MYFATHERLAND. 

The green hills of my fatherland 

In dreams still greet my view : 
I see once more the wave-girt strand, 

The ocean depth of blue ; 
The sky, the glorious sky, outspread 

Above their calm repose ; 
The river, o'er its rocky bed 

Still singing as it floves ; 
The stillness of the sabbath hours, 

When men go up to pray ; 
The Runhght resting on the flowers, 
The birds that sing among the bowers 

Through all the summer day. 

Land of my birth — mine early love — 

Once more thine airs I breathe : 
I see thy proud hills tower above, 

Thy green vales sleep beneath ; 
Thy groves, thy rocks, thy murmtuing rills, 

AH rise before mine eyes ; 
The dawn of morning on thy hills. 

Thy gorgeous sunset skies ; 
Thy forests, from whose deep recess 

A thousand streams have birth. 
Gladdening the lonely wilderness. 
And filling the green silentness 

With melody and mirth. 

I wonder if my home would seem 

As lovely as of yore ; 
I wonder if the mountain stream 

Goes singing by the door ; 
And if the flowers still bloom as fair, 

And if the -woodbines climb. 
As when I used to train them there. 

In the dear olden time ; 
I wonder if the birds still sing 

Upon the garden tree. 
As sweetly as in that sweet spring 
Whose golden memories gently bring 

So many dreams to me. 



I know that there hath been a change, 

A change o'er hall and hearth — 
Faces and footsteps new and strange 

About my place of birth : 
The heavens above are still as bright 

As in the days gone by. 
But vanished is the beacon hght 

That cheered my morning sky ; 
And hill, and vale, and woodland glen, 

And rock, and mmmuring stream. 
That wore such glorious beauty then, 
Would seem, should I return again, 

The record of a dream. 

I mourn not for my childhood's hours, 

Since, in the far-oflf west, 
'Neath sunnier skies, in greener bowers, 

My heart hath found its rest. 
I moum not for the hills and streams 

That chained my steps so long. 
Yet still I see thee in my dreams, 

And hail them in my song ; 
And often by the hearth-fire's blaze, 

When winter eves shall come. 
We '11 sit and talk of other days. 
And sing the well-remembered lays 

Of my green moiuitain home. 



CROSSING THE ALLEGANIES. 

The broad, the bright, the glorious West, 

Is spread before me now ! 
Where the gray mists of morning rest 

Beneath yon mountain's brow! 
The bound is past, the goal is won; 
The region of the setting sun 

Is open to my view ; 
Land of the valiant and the free — 
My own Green Mountain land — to thee 

And thine a long adieu ! 

327 



228 



MARTHA DAY. 



I hail thee, Valley of the West, 

For what thou yet shalt be ; 
I hail thee for the hopes that rest 

Upon thy destiny ! 
Here, from this mountain height, I see 
Thy bright waves floating to the sea, 

Thine emerald fields outspread ; 
And feel that, in the book of fame, 
Proudly shall thy recorded name 

In later days be read. 

Yet, while I gaze upon thee now. 

All glorious as thou art, 
A cloud is resting on m}^ brow, 

A weight upon my heart. 
To me, in all thy youthful pride. 
Thou art a land of cares untried, 

Of untold hopes and fears ; 
Thou art — yet not for thee I grieve ; 
But, for the far-off land I leave, 

I look on thee with tears. 



Oh ! brightly, brightly glow thy skies 

In Summer's sunny hours ! 
The green earth seems a paradise 

Arrayed in summer flowers ! 
But oh ! there is a land afar. 
Whose skies to me are brighter far, 

Along the Atlantic shore ! 
For eyes beneath their radiant shrine 
In Idndlier glances answered mine : 

Can these their light restore 1 

Upon the lofty bound I stand 

That parts the East and West; 
Before me lies a fairy land — 

Behind, a home of rest ! 
Here, Hope her wild enchantment flings, 
Portrays all bright and lovely tilings 

My footsteps to allure ; 
B ut there, in Memory's light, I see 
All that was once most dear to me — 

My young heart's cynosure ! 



MARTHA DAY. 



Miss Day was a daughter of the late emi- 
nent president of Yale ■College, and was born 
in New Haven on the thirteenth of Febru- 
ary, 1813. She was educated at the best 
schools in Connecticut, and was particularly 
distinguislied for her acquirements in math- 
ematics and languages. She died suddenly, 
when but twenty years of age, on the second 
of December, 1S33, and in the following year 



HYMN. 

Fathek Almighty ! 
From thy high seat thou watchest and controUest 

The insects that upon thy footstool creep, 
While, vrith a never-wearied hand, thou rollest 

Millions of worlds along the boundless deep. 
Father ! now the clouds hang blackening o'er us, 

And the dark, boiling deeps beneath us yawn : 
Scatter the tempests, quell the waves before us ; 

To the wild, fearful night send thou ablessed davm. 

Father All Holy ! 
When thou shalt sit upon thy throne of glory. 

The steadfast earth, the strong, untiring sea, 
Their verdant isles, their mountains high and hoary. 

With awe and fear shall from thy presence flee. 
Then shalt thou sit a Judge, the guilty dooming 

To adamantine chains and endless fire : 
Oh, Father ! how may we abide thy coming ] 

Where find a slielter from the pure Jehovali's ire ? 

Fadier AU Merciful ! 
Still may the guilty come in peace before thee, 

Bathing thy feet with tears of love and wo ; 
And while for pardon only we implore thee. 

Blessings divine, unnumbered, o'er us flow. 



a collection of her Literary Remains, with 
Memorials of her Life and Character, was 
published at New Haven by her friend and 
relative. Prof. Kingsley. Her poems were 
buds of promise, which justified the anticipa- 
tions that were entertained of her eminence 
in literature. The following hymn was de- 
signed to be inserted in an unwritten drama, 
suggested by an incident in the life of David. 



Father, her heart from all her idols tearing. 
Thine erring child again would turn to thee ; 

To thee she bends, trembling, yet not despairing : 
From fear, remorse, and sm, Father ! set her free. 



LINES ON PSAIM CII. 

The boundless universe. 
All that it hath of splendor and of life, 
The living, moving worlds, in their bright robes 
Of blooming lands and heaving, glittering waters, 
Even the still and holy depths of heaven. 
Where the glad planets bathe in floods of light, 
For ever pouring from a thousand suns, 
AU, all are but the garments of our God, 
Yea, the dark foldings of his outmost skirts ! 
Mortal ! who with a trembling, longing heart, 
Watchest in silence the few rays that steal. 
In their kind dimness, to thy feeble sight — 
Watch on, in silence, till within thy soul. 
Bearing away each taint of sin and death. 
Springs the hid fountain of immortal hfe ! 
Then shall the mighty veil asunder rend. 
And o'er the spirit — living, sh'ong, and pure — 
Shall the full glories of the Godhead flow ! 



MARY ANN HANMER DODD. 



Miss Dodd is a daughter of Mr. Elisha 
Dodd, of Hartford, Connecticut, and was born 
in 1S13. Her first appearance as an author 
was in 1834, when she contributed a few 
poems to The Hermenethean, a miscellany 
conducted bjr the students of Washington 
(now Trinity) College. She has since writ- 
ten frequently for the Ladies' Repository, a 
monthly magazine, and The Piose of Sharon, 
an annual, edited for several years by her 
friend the late Mrs. Mayo. A collection of 



her poems was published at Hartford in 1843. 
Miss Dodd writes with taste aird feeling, and 
her writings would have been known more 
generally and perhaps more favorably if she 
had not confined herself so much to denomi- 
national channels of publication. Like Mrs. 
Scott, Mrs. Mayo, Mrs. Sawyer, Mrs. Case, 
the Careys, and some others who are quoted 
in this volume, she is of the Universalist 
church, though her religious compositions are 
all addressed to universal sympathies. 



LAMENT. 

Su^iMzn departs ! the golden hours are dying ! 

In the green glade its minstrelsy is still ; 
A purple haze, like a thin veil, is lying 

On the calm waters and the distant hill. 
Cooler the breeze that waits upon the morning ; 

Paled is the splendor of the noontide ray ; 
Fewer the flowers the forest path adorning; 

Earlier the twilight fades in gloom away. 

Summer departs, and thou, too, hast departed ! 

Thou, who wert joy aud sunshine to thy friends ; 
What have they now, the lonely and sad-hearted. 

But the low mound which o'er thy slumber bends t 
The Power that pales the season as its closes. 

And folds the brightness in the blossom's breast, 
Bade Death go forth among the fading roses, 

And bear thy spuit to its promised rest. 

Summer, sweet Summer ! saddened in thy waning, 

A shadow falleth on thy garlands gay ; 
A deeper gloom is on thy path remaining. 

Since one beloved hath with thee passed away ! 
Thou wilt come back ; but when thy skies are bum- 

And thy fair presence gladdens all the plain, [ing. 
How can we ever joy in thy returning 1 

How can we welcome thee with smUes again 1 

Thou wilt not wake the dead, in silence sleeping. 

Who vanished from us with thy long, bright days ; 
Thou wilt not call the form the grave is keeping, 

Once more to meet and bless our lingering gaze. 
So is it best — thou friend, returning never ! 

Thou, the true-hearted, generous, and kind ! 
For thee 'tis best: when kindred spirits sever, 

They only suifer who remain behind. 
Thou art secure from ill. Life's toil is ended ; 

Finished, for thee, its fcverishness and strife ; 
Its discords in one harmony are blended ; 

Its seeming gloom is all with brightness rife. 
Oh ! in that glorious land the good inherit, 

Canst thou the anguish of a mourner see, 
Who finds the only spell that soothes her spirit 

In weavmg thus a sad lament for thee t 



THE MOUKNER. 

Thou weepest for a sister ! In the bloom 

And spring-time of her years to Death a prey, 
Shrouded from love by the remorseless tomb, 

Taken from all life's joys and griefs away. 
'T is hard to part with one so sudden called, 

So young, so happy, and so dearly loved ; 
To see the arrow at our idol hurled, 

And vainly pray the shaft may be removed- 
Young, loving, and beloved ! cruel Death ! 

Couldst thou not spare the treasure for a while t 
There are warm hearts that wait to yield their breath, 

And aged eyes that can no longer smde. 
Why pass the wearj' pilgrims on their way 

Bowed down with toil, and sighing for relief; 
To make the blossom in its pride thy pre)^. 

Whose joyous heart had never tasted grief 1 

Sad sister, turn not hopelessly away ; 

Nor longer at the will of Heaven repine ; 
Fold not thy hands in agony and say, 

" There is no sorrow in the world like mine." 
Oh ! could my numbers soothe the sinking soul, 

Or one hope waken with the wreath I twine. 
Soft sounds of sympathy should round thee roll 

Warm from a heart that knows such pain as thine. 

I, too, have been a mourner. Sorrow deep 

Its lava-tide around my pathway rolled ; 
And sable weeds a hue could never keep. 

Sad as the heart they hid beneath their fold. 
All joy grew dim before my tearful eye. 

Which but the shadow of the grave could see ; 
There was no brightness in the earth or sky. 

There was no sunshine in the world for me. 

Oh ! bitter was the draught from Son-ow's cup, 

And stern the anguish which my spirit wrung, 
When I was called to give mine idol up. 

And bend a mourner o'er the loved and young. 
And for the lost to weep is still my choice : 

I ask for one whose pilgrimage is o'er. 
And vainly listen for a vanished voice. 

Whose pleasant tones shall greet my ear no more. 



230 



MARY A. H. DODD. 



There is a spell around my spirit cast, 

A shadow where the sanbeam smiled before ; 
'T is grief, but all its bitterness is past ; 

'Tis sorrow, but its murmurings arc o'er. 
Within my soul, which to the storm was bowed. 

Now the white wing of Peace is folded deep ; 
And I have found, I trust, behind the cloud. 

The blessing promised to the eyes that weep. 

So thou wilt find relief. For deepest wo 

A fount of healing in our pathway springs ; 
Like Lethe's stream, that silver fountain's flow 

A soothing draught unto the sufferer brings. 
A Father chastened thee ! oh, look to Him, 

And his dear love in all thy trials see ; 
Look with the eye of faith through shadows dim, 

And he will send the Comlbrter to thee. 



TO A CRICKET. 

Cease, cricket ! cease thy melancholy song ! 
Its chiming cadence falls upon mine ear 
With such a saddening influence all day long, 
I can not bear those mournful notes to hear; 
Notes that will often start the unbidden tear, 
And wake the heart to memories of old days, 
When life knew not a sorrow or a fear ; 
For ever basking in the sunny rays 

Which seem so passing bright to youth's all-trustful 
gaze. 
Once more my steps are stayed at eventide. 
Beneath the fairest moon that ever shone ; 
Where the old oak threw out its branches wide 
Over the low roof of mine early home ; 
Ere yet my bosom knew a wish to roam 
From the broad shelter of that ancient tree. 
Or dreamed of other lands beside our own, 
BeyoilU the boundary of that flowery lea ; 

For the green valley there was world enough for me. 

A group are gathered round the household hearth, 
Where chilly Autunui bids the bright flame play ; 
And social converse sweet, and childhood's mirth, 
Swiftly beguile the lengthened eve away : 
A laughing girl shakes back her tresses gay. 
With a half-doubtful look and wondering tone — 

Hark ! there is music ! do you hear the lay 1 
Mother, what is it singing in the stone 1 
Some luckless fairy wight imprison'd there alone?"... 

Wake not remembrance thus ! for stern the fate 
That marks my pathway with a weary doom ; 
And to a heart so worn and desolate, 
Thy boding voice may add a deeper gloom. 
Though few the clouds which o'er the blue sky 
And green the livery of our forest bowers, [roam, 
To warn us of a sure decay ye come. 
In sable guise, trailing the faded flowers. 
Singing the deatli-song sad of Summer'.s waning 
hours ! 
Those emerald robes will change to russet brown, 
Which Summer over vale and hillside cast; 
To other skies, that know no wintry frown, 
Bright birds shall wing their weary way at last; 
And Autumn's hectic hues which fade so fast, 



Will make the dark old woods a while look gay ; 
But Death must come when the rare show is past : 
Then cease thy chant, dark prophet of decay ! 
I can not bear to hear thy melancholy lay ! 



THE DREAMER. 

"A dark, cold cnim, wliiih nntliinsj now can breott, 
Or warm, or brigijteii: tike tljrn Syrian lake, 
Upon wliose aurlace MiTn anri Summer alied 
Tlieir smiles in vain, for all lienealli 13 dead!" 

Hf.aut of mine, why art thou dreaming ! 

Dreaming through the weary day, 
While life's precious hours are wasting, 

Fast and unimproved away 1 

With a world of beauty round me, 
Lone and sad I dwell apart ; 

Changing scenes can bring no pleasure 
To this wrecked and worn-out heart. 

Now I tempt the quiet Ocean 
While the sky is bright above, 

And the sunlight rests around me, 
Like the beaming smile of Love. 

Or by streamlet softly floiving 

Through the vale I wander now; 

And the balmy breath of Summer 
Fans my cheek and cools my brow. 

But as well, to me, might darken 
Over all the gloom of night; 

For no quick and sweet sensations 
Fill my soul with new delight. 

In the grass-grown, silent churchyard, 

With a listless step I rove ; 
And I shed no tear of sorrow 

By the graves of those I love. 

Could I weep, the spell might vanish ; 

Tears would bring my heart reUef — 
Heart so sealed to all emotion. 

Dead alike to joy and grief. 

When the storm that shook my spirit 
Left its mission finished there. 

Then a calm more fearful followed 
Than the wildness of despair. 

Whence the spell that chills my being, 
Bidding every passion cease. 

Closing every fount of feeling 1 — 
Say, my spirit, is it peace ? 

Wake, oh spell-bound Soul ! awaken — 

Bid this sad delusion flee : 
Such a lengthened dream is fearful : 

Such a peace is not for thee. 

Life is thine, and "life is earnest," 
Toil and grief thou canst not shun ; 

But be hopeful and believing. 
Till the prize of faith is won. 

Then the peace thou shalt inherit 
By the Savior promised free ; 

Peace the world destroyeth never — 
Father, give that peace to me ! 



MARY A. H. DODD. 



231 



THE DOVE'S VISIT. 

Why do thy pinions their motion cease I 
Wouldst thou listen to my sighing ? 

Art thou come with the ohve-branch of peace '.' 
Thou dove to my window flying ! 

Thy hreast is white as a snowy wreath, 

And thine eye is softly beaming ; 
Dost tliou bear a message tliy wing beneath, 

For maid of her lover dreaming 1 
Has thy flight been far ! thy plumage gleams, 

Unsoiled and unworn with using: 
Thou art mute, fair dove, but thy soft eye seems 

To answer my idle musing. 

Oh, thou, thou hast been where I fain would be, 
Where my thoughts are ever straying, 

Where the balmiest breeze of spring blows free, 
With the early blossoms playing ! 

Thou hast rested on the casement white. 
Which the lilac-boughs are shading. 

Where I greeted the morning's rosy light. 
Or looked on the sunset fading. 

Tell me, thou bird with the snowy breast ! 

Of a spot beloved for ever. 
Of the pleasant walks which my steps have pressed, 

Where now they may linger never. 

With thee would I gladly hasten there, 

If wings to my wish were granted, [care. 

To the flowers that bloomed 'neath my mother's 
And the trees my father planted. 

For dearer the simplest blossom there. 
Its sweets to the morning throwing. 

Than the choicest flower that perfumes the air, 
In a kingly garden growing. 

Vainly I strive to restrain the tear. 
The grief like a spring-tide swelling, 

When my thoughts return to the home so dear 
That is now a stranger's dwelling. 

And while I turn me away to weep, 

A host of memories waken, 
Like the circle spreading upon the deep. 

Or dropped from the foliage shaken, 

Should fate, where aff'ection clings so strong, 

A heart from its Eden banish 1 
Should it suifer a scene to charm so long. 

And then like a vision vanish 1 

I read reproach in that glance of thine. 

For words of repining spoken ; 
When my brow with the olive thou wouldst twine, 

I reject the peaceful token. 

Oh, how can a heart be still so weak, 
Though ever for strength beseeching. 

That from each event woald some lesson seek. 
And scorn not the liumblest teaching ! 

Waiting, and trustful like thee, sweet dove, 
To the watchful care of Heaven — 

With unshaken faith in a Father's love — 
Be the future wholly given. 

I will bid my heart's vain yearnings cease; 
I will hush this useless sighing ; 



Thy visit hath brought to m)' spirit peace, 
"Thou dove to my window flying ! 



TWILIGHT. 

The sunset hues are fading fast 
From the fair western sky away. 

And floating clouds which gathered round 
Have vanished with their colors gay. 

All, save one streak that lingers there. 

Retaining still a rosy hue. 
Bright at the verge, but pale above, 

Soft blending with celestial blue. 

So lovely were those brilliant clouds 
W^hich floated in the evening air, 

It well might seem that angel-forms 

Such fabrics for their robes would wear. 

But, hke the dreams that Fancy weaves. 
Their beauty quickly passed away ; 

And where their gorgeous tints were seen. 
Soft twilight reigns with shadows gray. 

One star, one bright and quiet star. 

Kindles its steady light above. 
Over the hushed and resting earth 

Still watching like the eye of Love. 
The birds that woke such joyous strains, 

With folded pinions seek repose ; 
All, save the minstrel sad who sings 

His plaintive love-lay to the rose. 

The weary bees have reached the hive. 

Rejoicing over labor done ; 
And blossoms close their fragrant cups. 

Which opened to the morning sun. 

The winds are hushed that music made 

The leafy-laden boughs between. 
And scarce the lightest zephyr's breath 

Now dallies with the foliage green. 
This is the hour so loved by all 

Whose thoughts are lingering with the past, 
When scenes and forms to memory dear 

Gather around us dim and fast. 
Childhood's bright days, youth's short romance. 

And manhood's dreams of power and fame, 
Again come back to cheat the heart 

So changed by time, yet still the same. 

The mingling tones of voices gone 

Are breathing round us sweet and low, 
And eyes are beaming once again. 

That smiled upon us long ago. 
We gaze upon those loving eyes. 

Which never coldly turn away ; 
We clasp the hand and press the lip 

Of forms that but in memory stay. 
We feel the mfluence of a spell, 

And wake to smiles or melt to tears. 
As pass before the dreaming eye 

The light and shade of other years. 
Oh, pleasant is the dewy mom ! 

And golden noon is fair to see ; 
But sweeter far the closing day, 

Dearer the twilight hour to me. 



ANNE C. LYNCH. 



Miss Anne Chaelotte Lynch is a native 
of Bennington, in Vermont. Her mother is 
descended from the Fays and Robinsons, 
conspicuous in the early history of that state, 
and is a daughter of Colonel Gray, of the 
Connecticut line in the Revolutionary army. 
Her father was one of the United Irishmen, 
and in that celebrated body there were few 
more heroic and constant. He was but six- 
teen when he joined in the rebellion of '98, 
and soon after his arrest, on account of his 
youth and chivalrous character, he was of- 
fered liberty and a commission in the British 
army if he would take the oath of allegiance 
to the government. He refused, and after 
being four years a state prisoner, was, at the 
age of twenty, banished for life. With Em- 
met, McNeven, and others, he came to Amer- 
ica, where he married ; and while his daugh- 
ter was a child, he died in Cuba, whither he 
had gone in search of health. 

Miss Lynch was educated at a popular 
female seminary in Albany, where her class 
compositions attracted much attention by a 
strength and earnestness unusual in perform- 
ances of this description. She was a loving 
reader of Childe Harold, and caught the tone 
of this immortal poem, which is echoed in 
several of her earlier pieces, that still have 
sufficient individuality to justify the expec- 
tations then formed of her maturer abilities. 
She soon outgrew imitation, and her occa- 
sional contributions to literary journals be- 
came more and more the voices of her own 
life and nature. 

After leaving school, Miss Lynch passed 
some time in Providence ; and her knowl- 
edge and taste in literature are illustrated in 
a volume which she published in lliat city, 
in 1S41, under the title of The Rhode-Island 
Book — a selection of prose and verse from 
the writers of that state, including several 
fine poems of her own. For five or six years 
she has resided in New York, where her 
house is known for the weekly assemblies 
there of persons connected with literature 



and the arts. I have sometimes attended 
these agreeable parties, and have met at 
them probably the larger number of the liv- 
ing poets whose works are reviewed in this 
volume, with many distinguished men of 
letters, painters, sculptors, singers, and am- 
ateurs, among whoih our author is held in as 
much esteem for her amiable social quali- 
ties, as respect for her intellectual accom- 
plishments. 

The poems of Miss Lj'nch are marked by 
depth of feeling and grace of expression. 
They are the natural and generally unpre- 
meditated efl'usions of a nature extremely 
sensitive, but made strong by experience and 
knowledge, and elevated into a divine repose 
by the ever active sense of beauty. Though 
for the most part very complete, they are 
short, and in many cases may be regarded as 
improvisations upon the occasions by which 
they were suggested. We have nothing in 
them that may be regarded as a fair illustra- 
tion of her powers. 

The prose writings of Miss Lynch are 
graceful, elegant, and full of fine reflection. 
They evince a genial and hopeful but not 
j oyous spirit — a waiting for the future rat her 
than a satisfaction with the present. She 
has a large acquaintance with literature, and 
her criticisms, scattered through many des- 
ultory compositions, are discriminating, and 
illustrated, from a wide observation and a 
ready fancy, with uniform judgment and taste. 
The long chapter entitled Leaves from the 
Diary of a R ecluse, in The Gift for Mdcccxlv, 
is characteristic of her manner, while ibr a 
brief period it admits us to the contemplation 
of her life. 

A collection of the Poems of Miss Lynch, 
with engravings after original designs by her 
friends Durand, Huntington, Cheney, Darley, 
Brown, Cushman, Rossiter, Rothermel, and 
Winner, has just appeared. It is a beautiful 
book of art, and so demonstrative of her po- 
etical abilities that it will secure her a posi- 
tion she has not before occupied as an author. 



ANNE C. LYNCH. 



233 



THE IDEAL. 

" La Tie est un i^ommell I'anlour en eet la reve." 

A SAD, sweet dream ! It fell upon my soul 

When song and thought first woke their echoes 
Swaj-ing my spirit to its wild control, [there, 

And with the shadow of a fond despair, 
Darkening the fountain of my young life's stream. 
It haunts me still, and yet I know 'tis but a dream. 
'V^'Tience art thou, shadowy presence, that canst hide 

From my charmed sight the glorious tilings of 
A mirage o'er life's desert dost thou glide 1 [earth t 

Or with those glimmerings of a former birth, 
A " trailing cloud of glory," hast thou come [home "i 
From some bright world afar, our unremembered 

I know thou dwell'st not in this dull, cold Real, 
I know tliy home is in some brighter sphere ; 

I know I shall not meet thee, my Ideal, 
In the dark wanderings that await me here : 

"Why comes thv gentle image then, to me. 

Wasting my night of Ufe in one long dream of thee 1 

The city's peopled solitude, the glare 
Of festal halls, moonlight, and music's tone. 

All breathe the sad refrain — thou are not there ! 
And even with Nature I am still alone : 

With joy I see her summer bloom depart; 

I love drear winter's reign — 't is winter in my heart. 

And if I sigh upon my brow to see 

The deep'ning shadow of Time's restless wing, 
'Tis for the youth I might not give to thee, 

The vanished brightness of my first sweet spring; 
That I might give thee not the joyous form 
Unworn by tears and cares, unbhghted by the storm. 

And when the hearts I should be proud to win. 
Breathe, in those tones that woman holds so dear, 

Words of impassioned homage unto mine, 
Coldly and harsh they fall upon my ear ; 

And as I listen to the fen'ent vow. 

My weary heart rephes, " Alas ! it is not thou." 

And when the thoughts within my spirit glow. 
That would outpour themselves in words of fire, 

If some kind influence bade the music flow. 
Like that which woke the notes of Memnon's lyre, 

Thou, sunlight of my life, wak'st not the lay. 

And song within my heart, unuttered, dies away. 

Depart, oh shadow I fatal dream, depart ! 

Go ! I conjure thee leave me this poor life, 
And I will meet with firm, heroic heart. 

Its threat'ning storms and its tumultuous strife. 
And with the poet-seer will see thee stand 
To welcome my approach to tliine own spirit-land. 



THE IDEAL FOUND. 

I'te met thee, whom I dared not hope to meet, 
Save in th' enchanted land of my day dreams : 

Yes, in this common world, this waking state. 
Thy living presence on my vision beams — 

Life's dream embodied in reality ! 

And in thine eyes I read indiflerence to me ! 

Yes, in those star-like eyes I read my fate, 
My horoscope is written in their gaze ; 



My " house of life" henceforth is desolate : 

But the dark aspect my firm heart surveys. 
Nor faints nor falters even for thy sake : [break ! 
'T is calm and nerved and strong : no, no, it shall not 

For I am of that mood that will defy — 
That does not cower before the gathering storm ; 

That face to face will meet its destiny, 
And undismayed confront its darkest form. 

Wild energies awaken in this strife. 

This conflict of the soul with the grim phantom Life. 

But ah ! if thou hadst loved me — had I been 

All to thy dreams that to mine own thou art — 
Had those dark eyes beamed eloquent on mine, 

Pressed for one moment to that noble heart 
In the full consciousness of faith unspoken, 
Life could have given no more — then had my proud 

heart broken ! 
The Alpine glacier from its height may mock 

The clouds and lightnings of the winter sky, 
And from the tempest and the thunder's shock 

Gather new strength to lift its summit high; 
But kissed by sunbeams of the summer day, 
It bows its icy crest and weeps itself away. 

Thou know'st the fable of the Grecian maid 
M'ooed by the veiled immortal from the skies. 

How in his full perfections, once she prayed. 
That he would stand before her longing eyes. 

And how that brightness, too intense to bless, [cess. 

Consumed her o'erwrought heai't with its divine ex- 

To me there is a meaning in the tale. 

I have not prayed to meet thee : I can brook 
That thou shouldst wear to me that icy veil ; 

I can give back thy cold and careless look ; 
Yet shrined within my heart, still thou shalt seem 
What there thou everwert.a beautiful, brightdream! 



THE IMAGE BROKEN. 

'T WAS but a dream, a fond and foolish dream — 

The calenture of a delirious brain, 
Whose fever-thirst creates the rushing stream. 

Now to the actual I awake again ; 
The vision, to my gaze one moment gi"anted, 
Fades in its light away and leaves me disenchanted. 

Tlie image that my glowing fancy wrought, 
Now to the dust with ruthless hand I cast ; 

Thus I renounce the worship that I sought, 
Of my own idol the iconoclast. 

The echo of " Eureka ! I have found !" 

Falls back upon my heart a vain and empty sound. 

Oh, disembodied being of my mind, 
So wildly loved, so fervently adored ! 

In whom all high and glorious gifts I shrined. 
And my heart's incense on the altar poured — 

Now do I know that, clad in mortal guise, 

Ne'er on this earth wilt thou upon my vision rise : 

That only in the vague, cold realm of Thought 
Shall I meet thee whom here I seek in vain ; 

And like Egyptian Isis, when she sought 
The scattered fragments of Osiris slain, 



234 



ANNE C. LYNCH. 



Now do I know that henceforth I shall find 
But fragments of thy soul within earth's clay en- 
shrined. 
Thou whom I have not seen and shall not see 

Till the sad drama of this life be o'er ! 
Yet do I not renounce my faith m thee : 

Thou still art mine — I thine for evermore ; 
And this belief shall be the funeral pyre 
Of all less noble love, of all less high desire. 

Here, like the Hindoo widow, I will bring 
Hope, youth, and all that woman prizes most — 

The glow of summer and the bloom of spring, 
And on thine altar lay the holocaust : 

And, in my faith exulting, I will see 

The sacrifice consume I consecrate to thee. 

To Love's sweet tones my heart shall never thrill ; 

Nor, as the tardy years their circles roll, 
Shall they the ardor of its pulses chill. 

Thus will I live in widowhood of soul, 
Until, at last, my lingering exile o'er, 
Upon somelovelierstar,tooblest, we meet once more. 

Oh, tell me not that now indeed I dream ; 

That these aspirings mocked at last will be ! 
Gleams of a higher life to me they seem — 

A sacred pledge of immortality. 
Tell not the yearning heart it shall not find : [kind ! 
O Love, thou art too strong ! O God, thou art too 



THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 

Theke are countless fields the green earth o'er 
Where the verdant turf has been dyed with gore ; 
Where hostile ranks, in their grim array. 
With the battle's smoke have obscured the day ; 
Where hate was stamped on each rigid face, 
As foe met foe in the death embrace ; 
Where the groans of the wounded and dying rose, 
Till the heart of the listener with horror iroze, 
And the wide expanse of the crimsoned plain 
Was piled with its heaps of uncounted slain: 
But a fiercer combat, a deadlier strife. 
Is that which is waged in the battle of life. 

The hero that wars on the tented field, 
With his shining ^sword and his burnished shield, 
Goes not alone with his faithful brand ; 
Friends and comrades around him stand. 
The trumpets sound and the war-steeds neigh 
To join in the shock of the coming fray — 
And he flies to the onset, he charges the foe, 
Where the bayonets gleam and the red tides flow ; 
And he bears his part in the conflict dire 
With an arm all nerve and a heart all fire. 
What though he fall ! at the battle's close, 
In the flush of the victory won he goes, 
With martial music and wa\ing plume. 
From a field of fame to a laurelled tomb. 
But the hero who wars in the battle of life, 
Must stand alone in the fearful strife ; 
Alone in his weakness or strength must go. 
Hero or craven, to meet the foe : 
He may not fly on that fated field — 
He must win or lose, he must conquer or yield. 

Warrior, who comest to this battle now 



With a careless step and a thoughtless brow, 

As if the field were already won — • 

Pause and gird all thine armor on ; 

Myriads have come to this battle ground 

With a valiant arm and a name renowned. 

And have fallen vanquished to rise no more. 

Ere the sun was set or the day half o'er. 

Dost thou bring with thee hither a dauntless will, 

An ardent soul that no blast can chill 1 

Thy shield of Faith hast thou tried and proved — 

Canst thou say to the mountain, " Be thou moved ?" 

In thy hand does the sword of Truth flame bright I 

Is thy banner emblazoned, " For God and the right 1 " 

In the might of prayer dost thou strive and plead 1 

Never had waiTior greater need ! 

Unseen foes in thy pathway hide ; 

Thou art encompassed on every side. 

There Pleasure waits with her siren train. 

Her poison flowers and her hidden chain ; 

Hope with her Dead-sea fruits is there ; 

Sin is spreading her gilded snare ; 

Flattery counts with her hollow smiles. 

Passion with silvery tone beguiles ; 

Love and Friendship their charmed spells weave : 

Trust not too deeply — they may deceive ! 

Disease with her ruthless hand would smite. 

And Care spread o'er thee a withering blight; 

Hate and Envy with visage black. 

And the serpent Slander, are on thy track. 

Guilt and Falsehood, Remorse and Pride, 

Doubt and Despair, in thy pathway glide ; 

Haggard Want in her demon joy 

Waits to degrade thee and then destroy ; 

Palsied Age in the distance lies. 

And watches his victim with rayless eyes ; 

And Death the insatiate is hovering near, 

To snatch from thy grasp all thou boldest dear. 

No skill may avail and no ambush hide : 

In the open field must the champion bide, 

And face to face and hand to hand 

Alone in his valor confront that band. 

In war with these phantoms that gird him round. 
No limbs dissevered may strew the ground ; 
No blood may flow, and no mortal ear 
The groans of the wounded heart may hear. 
As it struggles and writhes in their dread control. 
As the iron enters the riven soul : 
But the youthful form grows wasted and weak. 
And sunken and wan is the rounded cheek ; 
The brow is furrowed, but not with years ; 
The eye is dimmed with its secret tears. 
And streaked with white is the raven hair — 
These are the tokens of conflict there. 

The battle is over : the hero goes, 
Scarred and worn, to his last repose i 
He has won the day, he has conquered Doom, 
He has sunk unknown to his nameless tomb ; 
For the victor's glory no voices plead ; 
Fame has no echo and earth no meed ; 
But the guardian angels are hovering near: 
They have watched unseen o'er the conflict here. 
And they bear him now on their wings away 
To a realm of peace, to a cloudless day. 
Ended now is the earthly strife, 
And his brow is crowned with the crown of life ! 



ANNE C 


. LYNCH. 235 


THOUGHTS IN A LIBRARY. 


Oft, when drear wastes surround 


Speak low — tread softly through these halls ; 


My faltering footsteps here, 
I 've thought I, too, heard that blest sound 


Here Genius lives enshrined ; 


Of " Wanderer, do not fear." 


Here reign, in silent majesty, 




The monarchs of the mind. 


And then, to light my path 


A mighty spirit-host they come, 


On through the evil land. 


From every age and clime ; 


Have the twin angels, Hope and Faith, 


Above the buried wrecks of years, 


AValked with me, hand to hand. 


They breast the tide of Time. 




And in their presence-chamber here 
They hold their regal state. 


TO THE MEMORY OF CHANNING. 


And round them throng a noble train, 


" Tlie prophets, do lliey live for ever ? "— Zfc/i, i. 5. 


The gifted and the great. 


Those spirits God ordained, 


Oh, child of Earth ! when round thy path 


To stand the watchmen on the outer wall, 


The storms of life arise, 


Upon whose souls the beams of truth first fall ; 


And when thy brothers pass thee by 


They who reveal the ideal, the unattained. 


With stern, unloving eyes — 


And to their age, in stirring tones and high. 


Here shall the poets chant for thee 


Speak out for God, truth, man, and liberty — 


Their sweetest, loftiest lays ; 


Such prophets, do they die 1 


And prophets wait to guide thy steps 


When dust to dust returns. 


In wisdom's pleasant ways. 


And the freed spirit seeks again its God — 


Come, with these God-anointed kings 


To those with whom the blessed ones have trod, 


Be thou companion here ; 


Are they then lost ? No! still then- spirit burns 


And in the mighty realm of mind 


And quickens in the race ; the life they give, 


Thou shalt go forth a peer ! 


Humanity receives, and they survive 




While hope and vhtue live. 
The landmarks of their age. 




HAGAR. 


High-priests, kings of the realm of mind, are they, 


UiTTRODDEN, drear, and lone, 


A realm unbounded as posterity ; 


Stretched many a league away, 


The hopeful future is their heritage ; 


Beneath a burning, noonday sun, 


Their words of truth, of love, and faith sublime, 


The Syrian desert lay. 


To a dark world of doubt, despair, and crime. 


The scorching rays that beat 


Reecho through all time. 


Upon that herbless plain. 


Such kindling words are thine. 


The dazzling sands, with fiercer heat, 


Thou, o'er whose tomb the requiem soundeth still, 


Reflected back again. 


Thou from whose lips the silvery tones yet thrill 


O'er that dry ocean strayed 


In many a bosom, waking life divine ; 


No wandering breath of air, 


And since thy Master to the world gave token 


No palm-trees cast their cooling shade. 


That for Love's faith the creed of Fear was broken, 


No water murmured there. 


None higher have been spoken. 


And thither, bowed with shame. 


Thy reverent eye could see. 


Spurned from her master's side, 


Though sinful, weak, and wedded to the clod, 


The dark-browed child of Egypt came, 


The angel-soul still as the child of God, 


Her wo and shame to hide. 


Heir of his love, born to high destiny : 




Not for thy country, creed, or sect, speakest thou. 


Drooping and travel-worn. 


But him who bears God's image on liis brow, 


The boy upon her hung, 


Thv brother, high or low. 


* Who from his father's tent that morn 




Like a gazelle had sprung. 


Great teachers formed thy youth. 




As thou didst stand upon thy native shore, 


His ebbing breath failed fast. 
Glazed was his flashing eye ; 


In the calm sunshine, in tlie ocean's roar ; 


Nature and God spoke with thee, and the truth. 
That o'er thy spirit then in radiance streamed, 
And in thy life so calmly, brightly beamed. 


And in that fearful, desert waste, 
She laid him down to die. 


But when, in wild despair. 


Shall still shine on undimmed. 


She left him to his lot, 


_ 


A voice that filled that breathless air 
Said, " Hagar, fear thou not." 


Ages agone, like thee 
The famed Greek with kindling aspect stood, 
And blent his eloquence with wind and flood, 


Then o'er the hot sands flowed 


By the blue waters of the ^Egean sea ; 


A cooling, crystal stream. 


But he heard not their everlasting hymn : 


And angels left their high abode 


His lofty soul with Error's cloud was dim. 


And ministered to them. 


And thy great teachers spake not unto Mm. 



236 ANNE C 


LYNCH. 


A THOUGHT BY THE SEASHORE. 


And o'er its beauty and its bloom 




Their own dark shadows fling. 


Bcht me by the sea. 




When on my heart the hand of Death is prest, 


Between the future and the past 


If the soul lingereth ere she join the blest, 


In wild unrest we stand. 


And haunts awhile her clay, 


And ever as our feet advance. 


Then mid the forest shades I would not lie. 


Retreats the promised land. 


For the green leaves like me would droop and die. 


And though Love, Fame, and Wealth and Power, 


Nor mid the homes of men. 


Bind in their gilded band. 


The haunts of busy life, would I be laid : 


We pine to grasp the unattained — 


There ever was I lone, and my vexed shade 


The something still beyond. 


Would sleep unquiet then ; 


And, beating on their prison bars, 


The surging tide of life might overwhelm 


Our spirits ask more room, 
And with unanswered questionings. 


The shadowy boundaries of the silent realm. 


No sculptured marble pile 


They pierce beyond the tomb. 


To bear my name be reared upon my breast — 
Beneath its weight my free soul would not rest ; 

But let the blue sky smile. 
The changeless stars look lovingly on me, 
And let me sleep beside this sounding sea : 


Then say thou not, oh, doubtful heai't ! 

There is no life to come : 
That in some tearless, cloudless land, 

Thou shalt not find thy home. 


This ever-beating heart 






Of the great Universe ! here would the soul 
Plume her soiled pinions for the final goal. 


THE WOUNDED VULTURE. 


Ere she should thence depart — 


A KrNGiT vulture sat alone. 


Here would she fit her for the high abode — 


Lord of the ruin round. 


Here by the sea, she would be nearer God. 


Where Egypt's ancient monuments 


I feel his presence now : 


Upon the desert firowned. 


Thou mightiest of his vassals, as I stand 


A hunter's eager eye had marked 


And watch beside thee on the sparkling sand. 


The form of that proud bird. 


Thy crested billows bow ; 


And through the voiceless solitude 


And as thy solemn chant swells through the air. 


His ringing shot was heard. 


My spirit, awed, joins in thy ceaseless prayer. 


It rent that vulture's plumed breast. 


liife's fitful fever o'er. 


Aimed with unerring hand. 


Here then would I repose, majestic sea ; 


And his life-blood gushed warm and red 


E'en now faint glimpses of eternity 


Upon the yellow sand. 


Come o'er me on thy shore : 


No struggle marked the deadly wound, 


My thoughts firom thee to highest themes are given. 


He gave no piercing cry, 


As thy deep distant blue is lost in Heaven. 


But calmly spread his giant wings. 




And sought the upper sky. 




In vain with swift pursuing shot 


THE DUMB CREATION. 


The hunter seeks his prey. 


Deal kindly with those speechless ones. 


Circhng and circling upward still 


That throng our gladsome earth; 


On his majestic way. 


Say not the bounteous gift of life 


Up to the blue empyrean 


Alone is nothing worth. 


He wings his steady flight, 


What though with mournful memories 


Till his receding form is lost 


They sigh not for the past 1 


In the full flood of light. 


What though their ever joyous Now 


Oh, wounded heart ! oh, suffering soul ! 


No future overcast 1 


Sit not with folded wing. 


No aspirations fill their breast 


Where broken dreams and ruined hopes 


With longings undefined ; 


Their mournful shadows fling. 


They five, they love, and they are blest, 


Outspread thy pinions like that bird. 


For what they seek they find. 


Take thou the path sublime. 


They see no mystery in the stars. 


Beyong the flying shafts of Fate, 


No wonder in the plain, 


I5eyond the wounds of Time. 


And Life's eiiigma wakes in them 


Mount upward 1 brave the clouds and storms ! 


No questions dark and vain. 


Above life's desort plain 


To them earth is a final home. 


There is a calmer, purer air. 


A bright and blest abode ; 


A heaven thou, too, may'st gain. 


Their lives unconsciously flow on 


And as that dim, ascending form 


In harmony with God. 


Was lost in day's broad light. 


To this fair world our human hearts 


So shall thine earthly sorrrows fade, 


Their hopes and longings brmg. 


Lost in the Infinite. 




■TO&s3nESJ(&w®iy £i.7sm m&M^Mir Bimsm. 



ANNE C. LYNCH. 



237 



EROS. 

As when, untaught and blind, 
To the mute stone the pagan bows his knee, 
Spirit of Love, phantom of my own mind, 

So have I worshipped thee ! 

When first a laughing child, 
I gazed on Nature witli a wondering eye, 
I learned of her, in calm and tempest wild. 

This thirst for sympathy. 

I saw the flowers appear, 
And spread their petals out to meet the sun, 
The dewdrops on their glistening leaves draw near 

And mingle into one. 

And if a harp was stirred 
By the soft pulses of some wandering sound, 
Attuned to the same key, then I have heard 

Its chords untouched respond. 

Fast through the vaulted sky, 
Giving no sound or light, when storms were loud, 
I saw the electric cloud in silence fly. 

Seeking its sister cloud. 

I saw the winds, and sea, 
And all the hosts of heaven in bright array. 
Governed by this sweet law of sympathy, 

Koll on their destined way. 

And then my spirit pined. 
And, like the sea-shell for its parent sea. 
Moaned for those kindred souls it could not find. 

And panted to be free. 

And then came wild Despair, 
And laid her palsying hand upon my soul. 
And her dread ministers were with her there — 

The dagger and the bowl. 

God of life and light. 

Thou who didst stay my hand in that dread hour. 
Thou who didst save me in that fearful night 
Of maddening Passion's power — 

Before thy throne I bow : 
I tear my worshipped idols from their shrine ; 
I give to thee, though bruised and aching now, 

This heart — oh ! make it thine. 

1 've sought to fill in vain 

Its lonely, silent depths with human love : 
Help me to cast away each earthly chain. 
And rise to thee above. 



TO 



IN OBSCURITY. 



Is full-orbed splendor now the queen of Night 
Among the stars walks in her pride of place. 

And now again we miss that flood of hght 
That overflowed the azure fields of space. 

But though her brightness meets no more the gaze. 
As in her wonted orbit she declines, 

Yet not extinguished are her silver rays — 
She shines in shadow, but not less she shines. 

Soon will she rise again upon the sight. 

Passing the darkened shape that bids her wane ; 

Then shall we see her, in unclouded light. 
Take her own place among the stars again. 



ON A PICTURE OF HARVEY BIRCH. 

FROM COOPER'S "SPY." 

I KNOW not if thy noble worth 

My country's annals claim, 
For in her brief, bright history 

I have not read tliy name. 

I know not if thou e'er didst live. 

Save m the vivid thought 
Of him who chronicled thy life. 

With silent sufiering fraught. 

Yet in thy history I see 

Full many a great soul's lot, 
Who joins that martyr-army's ranks, 

That the world knoweth not ; 

Who can not weep " melodious tears" 

For fame or sympathy. 
But who in silence bear their doom 

To suffer and to die ; 

For whom no poet's harp is struck, 

No laurel wreath is twined ; 
Who pass unheard, unknown away. 

And leave no trace behind ; 

Who, but for their unwavering trust 

In Justice, Truth, and God. 
Would faint upon their weary way. 

And perish by the road. 

Truth, Justice, God ! oh, mighty faith. 

To bear us up unharmed ; 
The gates of hell may not prevail 

Against a soul so armed. 



TO 



WITH FLOWERS. 



Go, ye sweet messengers. 
To that dim-lighted room. 
Where lettered wisdom from the walls 
Sheds a delightful gloom ; 

Where sits in thought profound 
One in the noon of life, 
Whose flashing eye and fevered brow 
Tell of the inward strife ; 

Who in those wells of lore 
Seeks for the pearls of truth. 
And to Ambition's fever dream 
Gives his repose and youth. 

To him, sweet ministers. 
Ye shall a lesson teach ; 
Go in your fleeting loveliness. 
More eloquent than speech. 

Tell him in laurel wreaths 
No perfume e'er is found. 
And that upon a crown of thorns 
Those leaves are ever bound. 

Thoughts fresh as your own hues 
Bear ye to that abode — 
Speak of the sunshine and the sky, 
Of Nature and of God. 



238 



ANNE C. LYNCH. 



SONNETS. 

I. lOTE. 

Go forth in life, oh, friend ! not seeking love, 
A mendicant that with imploring eye 
And outstretched hand asks of the passers-by 

The alms his strong necessities may move. 

For such poor love, to pity near allied, 
Thy generous spirit may not stoop and wait, 

A suppliant whose prayer may be denied 
Like a spurned beggar's at a palace-gate : 

But thy heart's affluence lavish uncontrolled — 
The largess of thy love give full and free, 

As monarclis in their progress scatter gold ; 
And be thy heart like the exhaustless sea, 

That must its wealth of cloud and dew bestow. 

Though tributary streams or ebb or flow. 



II. THE LAKE AXD STAR. 

The mountain lake, o'ershadowed by the hills, 
May still gaze heavenward on the evening star 

Whose distant light its dark recesses fills. 
Though boundless distance must divide them far ; 

Still may the lake the star's bright unage bear. 
Still may the star fi-om its blue ether dome 
Shower down its silver beams across the gloom. 

And light the wave that wanders darkly there. 

Star of my life ! thus do I turn to thee 
Amid the shadows that above me roll ; 

Thus from thy distant sphere thou shiirest on me. 
Thus does thine image float upon my soul, 

Through the wide space that must our hves dissever 

Far as the lake and star, ah me, for ever ! 



III. A REMEMBItAXCE. 

NiGBT closes round me, and wild threatening forms 
Clasp me with icy arms and chain me down. 
And bind upon my brow a cypress crown 
Dewy with tears, and Heaven frowns dark with 
But the one glorious memory of thee [storms : 
Rises upon my path to guide and bless. 
The bright Shekinah of the wilderness — • 
The polar star upon a trackless sea, 
The beaming Pharos of the unreached shore — 
It spans the clouds that gather o'er my way, 
The rainbow of my life's tempestuous day. 
Oh, blessed thotight ! stay with me evermore, 
And shed thy lustrous beams where midnight glooms, 
As fragaiit lamps burned in the ancient tombs. 



IV. THE SUX A?fD STREAM. 

As some dark stream within a cavern's breast 
Flows murmuring, moaning for the distant smi. 

So ere I met thee, mm'muring its unrest. 
Did my life's current coldly, darkly run. 

And as that stream beneath the sun's ftill gaze 
Its separate course and life no more maintains, 
But now absorbed, transfused far o'er the plains. 

It floats etherealized in those warm rays. 
So in the sunlight of thy fervid love 

My heart, so long to earth's dark channels given. 
Now soars all pain, all ill, all doubt above, 

And breathes the ether of the upper heaven : 

So thy Hgh spirit holds and governs mine. 

So is my life, my being lost in thine ! 



Ah no ! my love knows no vain jealousy : 
The rose that blooms and lives but in the sun, 
Asks not what other flowers he shines upon, 

If he but shine on her. Enough for me 
Thus in thy light to dwell, and thus to share 
The sunshine of thy smile with all things fair. 

I know thou'rt vowed to Beauty, not to Love: 
I would not stay thy footsteps from one shrine. 
Nor would I bind thee by a sigh to mine. 

For me — I have no lingering wish to rove ; 
For though I worship all things fair, hke thee, 
Of outward grace, of soul-nobility. 

Happier than thou, I find them all in one. 

And I would worship at thy shrine alone ! 



VI. THE HONET-BEE. 

The honey-bee that wanders all day long 
The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er. 
To gather in his fragrant winter store. 
Humming in calm content his quiet song. 
Seeks not alone the rose's glowing breast, 
The Hly's dainty cup, the violefs lips — 
But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips 
The single drop of sweetness closely prest 
Within the poison chaUce. Thus if we 
Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet 
In all the varied human flowers we meet. 
In the wide garden of humanity, 
And, like the bee, if home the spoil we bear. 
Hived in our heai-ts it turns the nectar there. 



Tir. ASPIBATIOX. 

The planted seed, consigned to common earth, 
Disdains to moulder with the baser clay, 
But rises up to meet the Ught of day. 
Spreads all its leaves, and flowers, and tendrils forth ; 

And, bathed and ripened in the genial ray, 
Pours out its perfume on the wandering gales, 
Till in that fragrant breath its life exhales. 
So this immortal germ within my breast 
Would strive to pierce the dull, dark clod of sense ; 
With aspirations, winged and intense. 
Would so stretch upward, in its tireless quest. 
To meet the Central Soul, its source, its rest : 
So in the fi'agrance of the immortal flower, [pour. 
High thoughts and noble deeds, its life it would out- 



VITI. TO THE SAYIOB. 

Oh thou who once on earth, beneath the weight 
Of our mortality didst live and move, 
The incarnation of profoundest love ; 

Who on the Cross that love didst consummate — • 
Whose deep and ample fulness could embrace 
The poorest, meanest of our fallen race : 

How shall we e'er that boundless debt repay '] 
By long loud prayers in gorgeous temples said ? 
By rich oblations on thine altars laid ? 

Ah, no ! not thus thou didst appoint the way : 
When thou wast bowed our human wo beneath, 
Then as a legacy thou didst bequeath 

Earth's sorrowing children to our ministry — 

And as we do to them, we do to thee. 



ANNE C. LYNCH. 



239 



IX. FAITH. 

Secuhelt cabined in the ship below, [sea, 

Through darkness and through storm I cross the 
A pathless wilderness of waves to me : 

But yet I do not fear, because I know 
That he who guides the good ship o'er that waste 
Sees in the stars her shining pathway traced. 

Blindfold I walk this life's bewildering maze, 
Up flinty steep, through frozen mountain pass, 
Tlirough thornset barren and through deep morass. 

But strong in faith I tread the uneven ways, 
And bare my head unshrinking to the blast. 
Because my Father's arm is round me cast ; 

And if the way seems rough, I only clasp 

The hand that leads me with a firmer grasp. 



BONES IN THE DESERT. 

Wheke pilgrims seek the Prophet's tomb 

Across the Arabian waste. 
Upon the ever-shifting sands 

A fearful path is traced. 
Far up to the horizon's verge, 

The traveller sees it rise — 
A line of ghastly bones that bleach 

Beneath those burning skies. 
Across it, tempest and simoom 

The desert-sands have strewed, 
But still that line of spectral white 

For ever is renewed. 
For while along that burning track 

The caravans move on, 
Still do the wayworn pilgrims fall 

Ere yet the shrine be won. 
There the tired camel lays him down 

And shuts his gentle eyes ; 
And there the fiery rider droops, 

Toward Mecca looks, and dies. 
They fall unheeded from the ranks : 

On sweeps the endless train ; 
But there, to mark the desert path, 

Their whitening bones remain. 
As thus I read the mournful tale 

Upon the traveller's page, 
I thought how like the march of life 

Is this sad pilgrimage. 

For every heart hath some fair dream, 

Some object unattained. 
And far off in the distance lies 

Some Mecca to be gained. 

But beauty, manhood, love, and power. 

Go in their morning down. 
And longing eyes and outstretched arms 

Tell of the goal unwon. 

The mighty caravan of life 
Above their dust may sweep. 

Nor shout nor trampling feet shall break 
The rest of those who sleep. 

Oh, fountains that I have not reached, 

That gush far off e'en now. 
When shall I quench my spirit's thirst 

Where your sweet waters flow ! 



Oh, Mecca of my lifelong dreams, 

Cloud palaces that rise 
In that far distance pierced by hope, 

When will ye greet mine eyes ! 
The shadows lengthen toward the east 

From the declining sun. 
And the pilgrim, as ye still recede. 

Sighs for the journey done ! 



CHRIST BETRAYED. 

Eighteen hundred years agone 
Was that deed of darkness done — 
Was that sacred, thorn-crowned head 
To a shamefal death betrayed, 
And Iscariot's traitor name 
Blazoned in eternal shame. 
Thou, disciple of our time. 
Follower of the faith sublime, 
Who with high and holy scorn 
Of that traitorous deed dost burn. 
Though the years may never more 
To our earth that form restore, 
The Christ-Spirit ever lives — 
Ever in thy heart he strives. 
When pale Misery mutely calls. 
When thy tempted brother falls. 
When thy gentle words may chain 
Hate, and Anger, and Disdain, 
Or thy loving smile impart 
Courage to some sinking heart : 
When within thy troubled breast 
Good and evil thoughts contest. 
Though unconscious thou raay'st be, 
The Christ-Spirit strives with thee. 

When he trod the Holy Land, 
With his small disciple band. 
And the fated hour had come 
For that august martyrdom — ■ 
When the man, the human love. 
And the God within him strove — 
As in Gethsemane he wept, 
They, the faithless watchers, slept : 
While for them he wept and prayed, 
One denied and one betrayed ! 

If to-day thou turn'st aside 
In thy luxury and pride. 
Wrapped within thyself and blind 
To the sorrows of thy kind. 
Thou a faithless watch dost keep — 
Thou art one of those who sleep : 
Or, if waking thou dost see 
Nothing of Divinity 
In our fallen, struggling race — 
If in them thou seest no trace 
Of a glory dimmed, not gone. 
Of a Future to be won, 
Of a Future, hopeful, liigh. 
Thou, like Peter, dost deny : 
But if, seeing, thou believest, 
If the Evangel thou receivest, 
Yet, if thou art bound to Sin, 
False to the Ideal within, 
Slave of Ease or slave of Gold, 
Thou the Son of God hast sold ! 



240 



ANNE C. LYNCH. 



THE WASTED FOUNTAINS. 

" And tlieir nobles have sent their little ones to the waters ; they came 
to tlie pits and found no water; they returned with their vessels 
empty." — Jeremiah xiv. 3. 

When the youthful fever of the soul 

Is awakened in thee first, 
And thou goest like Judah's children forth 

To slake the bui'ning thirst; 

And when dry and wasted, like the springs 

Sought by that little band. 
Before thee in their emptiness 

Life's broken cisterns stand ; 

When the golden iiuits that tempted 

Turn to ashes on the taste, 
And thine early visions fade and pass 

Like the mirage of the waste ; 

When faith darkens and hopes vanish 

In the shade of coming years. 
And the urn thou bearest is empty, 

Or o'erflowing with thy tears ; 

Though the transient springs have failed thee, 
Though the founts of youth are dried, 

Wilt thou among the mouldering stones 
In weariness abide 1 

Wilt thou sit among the ruins, 
With all words of cheer unspoken, 

Till the silver cord is loosened. 
Till the golden bowl is broken? 

Up and onward ! toward the east 

Green oases thou shalt find — 
Streams that rise fi'om higher sources 

Than the pools thou leavest behmd. 

Life has import more inspiring 

Than the fancies of thy youth ; 
It has hopes as high as heaven ; 

It has labor, it has truth ; 

It has wrongs that may be righted, 

Koble deeds that may be done. 
Its great battles are unfought, 

Its great triumphs are unwon. 

There is rising from its troubled deeps 

A low, unceasing moan ; 
There are aching, there are breaking 

Other hearts beside thine own. 

From strong Hmbs that should be chainless, 

There are fetters to unbind ; 
There are words to raise the fallen; 

There is light to give the blind ; 

There are crushed and broken spirits 
That electric thoughts may thrill ; 

Lofty dreams to be embodied 
By the might of one strong will. 

There are God and peace above thee : 

Wilt thou languish in despair 1 
Tread thy griefs beneath thy feet, 

Scale the walls of heaven by prayer — 



'Tis the key of the apostle 

That opens heaven from below ; 

'Tis the ladder of the patriarch, 
Whereon angels come and go ! 



PAUL PREACHING AT ATHENS. 

Greece ! hear that joyful sound ! 
A stranger's voice upon thy sacred hill. 
Whose tones shall bid the slumbering nations round 

Wake with convulsive thrill. 
Athenians ! gather there, he brings you words 
Brighter than all your boasted lore affords. 

He brings you news of One 
Above Olympian Jove; One in whose light 
Your gods shall fade like stars before the sun. 

On your bewildered night 
That Ut^knovvn God of whom ye darkly dream 
In all his burning radiance shall beam. 

Behold, he bids you rise 
From your dark worship round that idol shrine ; 
He points to Him who reared your starry skies. 

And bade your Phoebus shine. 
Lift up your souls fi-om where in dust ye bow ; 
That God of gods commands your homage now. 

But, brighter tidings still ! 
He tells of One whose precious blood was spilt 
In lavish streams upon Judea's hill, 

A ransom for your guilt ; 
Who triumphed o'er the grave, and broke its chain ; 
Who conquered Death and Hell, and rose again. 

Sages of Greece ! come near ; 
Spirits of daring thought and giant mould. 
Ye questioners of Time and Nature, hear 

Mysteries before untold ! 
Immortal life revealed ! light for which ye 
Have tasked in vain your proud philosophy. 

Searchers for some First Cause 
Through doubt and darkness — lo ! he points to One 
Where all your vaunted reason lost must pause, 

Too vast to think upon : 
That was from everlasting — that shall be 
To everlasting still, eternally I 

Ye followers of him 
Who deemed his soul a spark of Deity ! 
Your fancies fade — your master's dreams grow dun 

To this reality. i 

Stoic ! unbend that brow, drink in that sound. I 
Skeptic ! dispel those doubts, the truth is found. 

Greece ! though thy sculptured walls 
Have with thy triumphs and thy glories rung. 
And through thy temples and thy pillared halls 

Immortal poets sung — 
No sounds like these have rent your startled air : 
They open realms of light and bid you enter there. 



I 



EMILY JUDSON. 



Miss Emilt Chfebtjck, who under the 
graceful pseudonyme of ' Fanny Forester' be- 
came known as one of the most ingenious and 
brilliant female writers of the country, is a 
natire of central New York ; and after being 
thoroughly educated in the sciences suitable 
to her sex, and making herself iamiliar with 
the best literature by a loving and critical 
study of those authors who are the standards 
of thought and diction, she became a teacher 
in a female seminary at Utica, where she was 
residing when she made her first essays as a 
writer — some poetical contributions to the 
Knickerbocker Magazine, and several small 
volumes illustrative of practical religion, is- 
sued by the American Baptist Publication So- 
ciety. Early in June, 1S44, while visiting 
the city of New York, she wrote a hasty 
bagatelle for the New Mirror, then recent- 
ly established by Gen. Morris and Mr. N. P. 
Willis, scarcely thinking or caring that it 
would for a moment receive their attention. 
But Mr. Willis's perception of beauty is in- 
stinctive: he saw at a glance that his corre- 
spondent was possessed of extreme clever- 
ness — perhaps of genius — ^and his liberal 
but perfectly sincere applause led Miss Chub- 
buck to that career of literature which soon 
made her nom de plume as familiar as the 
names of the most popular authors. The 
first paper under the signature of " Fanny 
Forester" was published on the twenty-ninth 
of June in the New Mirror, and it was fol- 
lowed rapidly by all those sketches, essays, 
andpoems, which, two years afterward, when 
she was on the eve of sailing for India, were 
reprinted under the title of Alderbrook. 

In 1846, the missionary Judson — after a 
long career of usel'ulness and true glory in 
the East — returned to America, where he 
was received by the churches in a manner 
worthy of the greatness of his services to re- 
ligion and civilization. " Fanny Forester," 
on account of impaired health, sought the ge- 
nial climate of Philadelphia for the succeed- 
ing winter, and here he came to visit her and 
persuade her to write the mortal history of 

one who had joined the angels, leaving him 
in 



alone in the ship m which they had started to- 
gether to revisit their native country. When 
the apostle of the Burmans described in sen- 
tences glowing with his fine enthusiasm, the 
condition of the missionary field, white with 
the harvests which so few were reaping, she 
kindled at the recital, and forgetting the bril- 
liant prospects of success in letters, the dear- 
est ties of home afiections, determined to 
twine for the laurel which she cast aside, a 
wreath from these fields in the Orient, the 
grains in which should be stars to circle her 
brows for ever, and by their radiance to make 
more glorious the looked-for triumph of the 
Harvester of the world. 

Early in the spring she returned to the 
home of her childhood, to bid a last farewell 
to all its inmates. Then she wrote — " My 
heart is heavy with sorrow. The cup at my 
lipsis very bitter. Heaven help nie ! White 
hairs are bending in submissive grief, and 
age-dimmed eyes are dimmer with tears ; 
young spirits have lost their joyousness, 
young lips forget to smile, and bounding 
hearts and bounding feet are stilled. Oh, 
the rending of ties, knitted at the first open- 
ing of the infant eye, and strengthened by 
numberless acts of love, is a sorrowful thing ! 
To make the grave the only door to a meet- 
ing with those in whose bosoms we nestled, 
in whose hearts we trusted long before we 
knew how precious was such love and trust, 
brings with it an overpowering weight of 
solemnity. But a grave is yawning for each 
one of us ; and is it much to choose whether 
we sever the tie that binds us here to-day, or 
lie down on the morrow 1 Ah, the ' weaver's 
shuttle' is flying ; the ' flower of the grass' is 
withering ; the space is almost measured ; 
the tale nearly told ; the dark valley is close 
before us — tread we with care ! My mother, 
we may neither of us close the other's dark- 
ened eyes, and fold the cold hands upon the 
bosom ; we may neither of us watch the sod 
greening and withering above the other's 
ashes: but there are duties for us even more 
sacred than these. But a few steps, mother 
— difficult the path may be, but very bright 



342 



EMILY JUDSON. 



— and then we put on the rohe of immortali- 
ty, and meet to part never more. And we 
shall not be apart even on earth. There is 
an electric chain passing from heart to heart 
through the throne of the Eternal, and we 
may keep its links all brightly burnished by 
the breath of prayer. Still pray for me, 
mother, as in days gone by. Thou bidst me 
go. The smile comes again to thy lip, and 
the light to thine eye, for thou hast pleasure 
in the sacrifice. Thy blessing ! Farewell, 
my mother, and ye loved ones of the same 
hearthstone !" 

She was married to Dr. Judson, and in 
July sailed with him on his return to India, 
where she is now occupied with the duties 
of her mission. Soon after her arrival, the 
barbarians robbed her of all the gifts and sou- 
venirs, all the dresses, and all the cherished 
books, that she carried from America ; and 



other trials of her faith came — but none will 
ever make her look back with regret from 
the task set before her : and her life yet to 
be lived, it is trusted, will sometime, many 
years from now, fill the brightest pages in 
our missionary history. 

The longest of Mrs. Judson's poems is As- 
taroga, or the Maid of the Rock, in four can- 
tos, containing altogether about one hundred 
and fifty verses of the Spenserian measure. 
This was written in 1844, and it is inferior 
to several of her later compositions, though 
there is spirit and grace in some of its de- 
scriptions of scenery and of Indian life. Her 
largest prose work, except Alderbrook, is a 
very beautiful memoir of Mrs. Sarah Judson, 
published in New York in 1848. Among the 
latest of her poems is the little piece entitled 
My Bird, of which the biographical signifi- 
cance is sufficiently apparent. 



THE WEAVER. 

A -wKAVEii sat by the side of his loom, 

A-flinging his shuttle fast ; 
And a thread that would wear till the hour of doom 

Was added at every cast. 

His warp had been by the angels spun, 
And his weft was bright and new. 

Like threads which the morning unbraids firom the 
sun, 
AH jewelled over with dew. 

And fresh-lipped, bright-eyed, beautiful flowers 
In the rich, soft web were bedded ; 

And blithe to the weaver sped onward the hours ; 
Not jet were Time's feet leaded ! 

But something there came slow stealing by, 

And a shade on the fabric fell ; 
And I saw that the shuttle less blithely did fly — 

For thought hath a wearisome spell ! 

And a thread that next o'er the warp was lain. 

Was of melancholy gray ; 
And anon I marked there a tear-drop's stain, 

Where the flowers had fallen away. 

But still the weaver kept weaving on. 

Though the fabric all was gray ; 
And the flowers, and the buds, and the leaves, were 
gone, 

And the gold threads cankered lay. 

And dark — and still darker — and darker grew 

Each newly-woven thread ; 
And some there were of a death-mocking hue, 

And some of a bloody red. 

And things all strange were woven in, 

Sighs, and down-crushed hopes, and fears ; 

And the web was broken, and poor, and tliin, 
And it dripped with living tears. 



And the weaver fain would have flung it aside, 

But he knew it would be a sin ; 
So in light and in gloom the shuttle he plied, 

A-weaving these life-cords in. 

And as he wove, and, weeping, still wove, 

A tempter stole him nigh ; 
And, with glozing words, he to win him strove — 

But the weaver turned his eye. 

He upward turned his eye to heaven, 

And still wove on — on — on I 
Till the last, last cord from his heart was riven, 

And the tissue strange was done. 

Then he threw it about his shoulders bowed, 

And about his grizzled head ; 
And gathering close the folds of his shroud, 

Lay him down among the dead. 

And I after saw, in a robe of light. 

The weaver in the sky : 
The angels' wings were not more bright, 

And the stars grew pale it nigh. 

And I saw, mid the folds, all the iris-hued flowers 
That beneath his touch had sprung; 

More beautiful far than these stray ones of ours, 
Which the angels have to us flung. 

And wherever a tear had fallen down. 

Gleamed out a diamond rare ; 
And jewels befitting a monarch's crown 

Were the footprints left by Care. 

And wherever had swept the breath of a sigh, 

Was left a rich perfume ; 
And with light fi-om the fountain of bliss in the sky 

Shone the labor of Sorrow and Gloom. 

And then I prayed, " When ray last work is done. 

And the silver life-cord riven. 
Be the stain of Sorrow the deepest one 

That I bear with me to heaven I" 



EMILY JUDSON. 



243 



MINISTERING ANGELS- 

MoTHEB, has the dove that nestled 

Lovingly upon thy breast, 
Folded up his little pinion, 

And in darkness gone to rest 1 
IVay, the grave is dark and dreary. 

But the lost one is not there ; 
Hear'st thou not its gentle whisper, 

Floating on the ambient air 1 
It is near thee, gentle mother, 

Near thee at the evening hour ; 
Its soft kiss is in the zephj^r. 

It looks up from every flower. 
And when, Night's dark shadows fleeing, 

Low thou bendest thee in prayer. 
And thy heart feels nearest heaven. 

Then thy angel babe is there ! 

Maiden, has thy noble brother. 

On whose manly form thine eye 
Loved full oft in pride to linger. 

On whose heart thou couldst rely, 
Though all other hearts deceived thee, 

All proved hollow, earth grew drear. 
Whose protection, ever o'er thee. 

Hid thee from the cold world's sneer — 
Has he left thee here to struggle, 

All unaided on thy way 1 
Nay ; he still can guide and guard thee, 

Still thy faltering steps can stay : 
Still, when danger hovers o'er thee, 

He than danger is more near ; 
When in grief thou 'st none to pity, 

He, the sainted, marks each tear. 

Lover, is the light extinguished 

Of the gem that, in thy heart 
Hidden deepi}', to thy being 

All its sunshine could impart 1 
Look above ! 't is burning brighter 

Than the very stars in heaven ; 
And to light thy dangerous pathway. 

All its new-found glory 's given. 
With the sons of earth commingling. 

Thou the loved one mayst forget; 
Bright eyes flashing, tresses waving. 

May have power to win thee yet ; 
But e'en then that guardian spirit 

Oft will whisper in thine ear. 
And in silence, and at midnight. 

Thou wilt know she hovers near. 

Orphan, thou most sorely stricken 

Of the mourners thronging earth. 
Clouds half veil thy brightest sunshine, 

Sadness mingles with thy mirth. 
Yet, although that gentle bosom. 

Which has pillowed oft thy head, 
Now is cold, thy mother's spirit 

Can not rest among the dead. 
Still her watchful eye is o'er thee 

Through the day, and still at night 
Hers the eye that guards thy slumber. 

Making thy young dreams so bright. 
Oh ! the friends, the Iriends we've cherished, 

How we weep to see them die ! 



All unthinking they 're the angels 
That will guide us to the sky ! 



TO MY MOTHER. 

WRITTEN AFTER A SHORT ABSENCE. 

Give me my old seat, mother. 

With my head upon thy knee ; 
I 've passed through many a changing scene, 

Since thus I sat by thee. 
Oh ! let me look into thine eyes : 

Their meek, soft, loving light 
Falls like a gleam of holiness 

Upon my heart to-night. 

I 've not been long away, mother ; 

Few suns have rose and set. 
Since last the tear-drop on thy cheek 

My lips in kisses met ; 
'Tis but a little time, I know, 

But very long it seems. 
Though every night I come to thee, 

Dear mother, in my dreams. 

The world has kindly dealt, mother. 

By the child thou lovest so well ; 
Thy prayers have circled round her path, 

And 'twas their holy spell 
Which made that pat'n so clearly bright. 

Which strewed the roses there ; 
Which gave the Ught, and cast the balm 

On every breath of air. 

I bear a happy heart, mother — 

A happier never beat ; 
And even now new buds of hope 

Are bursting at my feet. 
Oh, mother ! life may be " a dream," 

But if such dreams are given. 
While at the portal thus we stand. 

What are the truths of heaven 'i 

I bear a happy heart, mother ; 

Yet, when fond eyes I see. 
And hear soft tones and winning words, 

I ever think of thee. 
And then, the tear my spirit weeps 

Unbidden fills my eye ; 
And like a homeless dove, I long 

Unto thy breast to fly. 

Then, I am very sad, mother, 

I 'm very sad and lone ; 
Oh ! there 's no heart whose inmost fold 

Opes to me like thine own ! 
Though sunny smiles wi'eathe blooming lips, 

While love-tones meet my ear — 
My mother, one fond glance of thine 

Were thousand times more dear. 

Then, with a closer clasp, mother. 

Now hold me to thy heart ; 
I'd feel it beating 'gainst my own 

Once more before we part. 
And, mother, to this lovelit spot, 

When I am far away. 
Come oft — too oft thou canst not come ! — 

And for thy darUng pray. 



244 



EMILY JUDSON. 



TO SPRING. 

A WELCOME, pretty maiden — ■ 

Dainty-footed Spring! 
Thou, with the treasures laden 

No other hand can bring. 
While onward thou art tripping, 
Children all around are skipping, 
And the low hrown eaves are dripping 

With the gladsomest of tears. 

From mossed old trees are bursting 

The tiny specks of green ; 
Long have their pores been thirsting 

For the gushing sap, I ween ; 
With scarce a shade molesting, 
The laughing light is resting 
On the slender group that's cresting 

Yon fresh, gi-een lullock's brow. 

At the timid flower it glances. 

Beneath the maple's shade ; 
And foiled, it lightly dances 

With the bars the boughs have made ; 
On the waters of the river. 
Still in a winter's shiver, 
Its golden streamers quiver, 

O'er-brimmed with lusty life. 

The folded buds are blushing 

On the gnai'led apple-tree ; 
While, the small grass-blades a-crusliing, 

Children gather them to see ; 
And the bee, thus early coming, 
All around the clusters humming, 
Upon the bland air thrumming, 

Plunges to the nectared sweets. 

Life, life, the fields is flushing ! 

Joy springs up from the ground ; 
And joyous strains are gushing 

From the woodland all around ; 
From birds on wild wings wheeUng, 
Up fi'om the cottage stealing. 
From the full-voiced woodman pealing, 

Ring out the tones of joy. 

Thrice welcome, pretty maiden ! 

With thy kiss upon my cheek, 
Howe'er with-care o'erladen. 

Of care I could not speak ; 
Now, I'll make a truce with sori'ow, 
And not one cloud will borrow 
From the dark, unsunned morrow ; 

I will be a child with thee. 



DEATH. 



When day is dying in the west. 
Each flickering ray of crimson Ught, 

The sky, in gold and purple dressed, 
The cloud, with glory all bedight, 
And every shade that usliers night. 

And each cool breeze that comes to weave 

Its dampness with my curls — all leave 
A lesson sad ! 

Last night I plucked a half-shut flower, 
Which blushed and nodded on its stem ; 



A thing to grace a Peri's bower ; 

It seemed to me some priceless gem, 

Dropped from an angel's diadem; 
But soon the blossom drooping lay, 
And, as it withered, seemed to say, 

" We 're passing all !" 
I loved a fair-haired, gentle boy, 

(A bud of brightness — ah, too rare !) 
I loved him, and I saw with joy 

Heaven's purity all centred there : 

But he went up, that heaven to share; 
And, as his spirit from him stole. 
His last look graved upon my soul, 

" Learn thus to die !" 
I've seen the star that glowed in heaven. 

When other stars seemed half asleep. 
As though from its proud station driven, 

Go rushing down the azure steep. 

Through space unmeasured, dark, and deep ; 
And, as it vanished fiir in night, 
I read by its departing hght, 

" Thus perish all I" 
I've, in its dotage, seen the year. 

Worn out and weary, struggling on, 
Till faUing prostrate on its bier, 

Time marked another cycle gone ; 

And, as I heard the dying moan, 
Upon my trembling heart there fell 
The awful words, as by a spell, 

" Death, death to all !" 
They come on every breath of air. 

Which sighs its feeble life away ; 
They 're whispered by each blossom fair, 

Which folds a lid at close of day ; 

There 's naught ef earth, or sad or gay, 
There's naught below the starlit skies, 
But leaves one lesson as it flies — 

" Thou too must die !" 
And numberless those silvery chords. 

Dissevered by the spoiler's hand, 
But each in breaking still affords 

A tone to say we all are banned ; 

And on each brow by death-damps spanned, 
The pall, the slowly moving hearse. 
Is traced the burden of my verse — 

" Death, death to man !" 



LIGHTS AND SHADES. 

If there be hght upon my being's cloud, 

I 'II cast o'er other hearts its cheering ray ; 

'T will add new brightness to my toilsome way. 
But when my spirit's sadness doth enshroud 

Hope's coruscations, Pleasure's meteor gleam. 
And darkness settles down upon my heart. 
And Care exerts her blighting, cankering art. 

Then, then, what I am not I '11 strive to seem ; 
Wo has no right her burden to divide. 
To cast her shadows o'er a sunny soul : 
So, though my bark rock on the troubled tide. 

Or lie, half wrecked, upon the hidden shoal, 
The flowers of Hope shall garland it the while. 
Though plucked from out her urn in death to smile. 



EMILY JUDSON. 



245 



CLINGING TO EARTH. 

Oh, do not let me die ! the earth is bright, 

And I am earthly, so I love it well ; 
Though heaven is holier, and all fall of light, 

Yet I am frail, and with frail things would dwell. 

I can not die ! the flowers of earthly love 
Shed their rich fragrance on a kindred heart ; 

There may be purer, brighter flowers above, 
Yet with these ones 't would be too hard to part. 

I dream of heaven, and well I love these dreams, 
They scatter sunlight on my varying way ; 

But mid the clouds of earth are priceless gleams 
Of brightness, and on earth oh let me stay. 

It is not that my lot is void of gloom. 
That sadness never circles round my heart ; 

Nor that I fear the darkness of the tomb, 
That I would never from the earth depart. 

'T is that I love the world — its cares, its sorrows, 
Its bounding hopes, its feelings fresh and warm, 

Each cloud it wears, and every light it borrows — 
Loves, wishes, fears, the sunshine and the storm ; 

I love them all : but closer still the loving 
Twine witli my being's cords and make my life ; 

And while within this sunlight I am moving, 
I well can bide the storms of worldly strife. 

Then do not let me die ! for earth is bright. 

And I am earthly, so I love it well ; 
Heaven is a land of holiness and light. 

But I am frail, and with the frail would dwell. 



ASPIRING TO HEAVEN. 

Yes, let me die ! Am I of spirit-birth, 
And shall I linger here where spirits fell. 

Loving the stain they cast on all of earth 1 
Oh make me pure, with pure ones e'er to dwell ! 

'Tis sweet to die ! The flowers of earthly love 
(Fair, frail, spring blossoms) early droop and die ; 

But all their ti'agrance is exhaled above. 
Upon our spirits evermore to lie. 

Life is a dream, a bright but fleeting dream, 
I can but love ; but then my soul awakes, 

And from the mist of earthliness a gleam 
Of heavenly light, of truth immortal, breaks. 

I shrink not from the shadows Sorrow flings 
Across my pathway ; nor from cares that rise 

In every footprint ; for each shadow brings 
Sunshine and rainbow as it glooms and flies. 

But heaven is dearer. There I have my treasure ; 

There angels fold in love their snowy wings ; 
There sainted lips chant in celestial measure. 

And spiritfingers stray o'er heav'n-wroughtstrings. 

There loving eyes are to the portals straying; 

There arms extend, a wanderer to fold ; 
There waits a dearer, holier One, arraying 

His own in spotless robes and crowns of gold. 



Then let me die ! My spirit longs for heaven. 
In that pure bosom evermore to rest ; 

But, if to labor longer here be given, 
" Father, thy will be done I" and I am blest. 



THE BUDS OF THE SARANAC* 

As angel breathed upon a budding flower. 

And on that breath the bud went up to heaven. 
Yet left a fragrance in the little bower 

To which its first warm blushes had been given ; 
And, by that fragrance nursed, another grew. 

And so they both had being in the last. 
And on this one distilled heaven's choicest dew. 

And rays of glorious light were on it cast. 
Until the floweret claimed a higher birth. 

And would not open on a scene so drear. 
For it was more of paradise than earth. 

And strains fi-om thence came ever floating near ; 
And so it passed, and long ere noontide's hour. 
The buds of earth had oped, a heaven-born flower. 



MY BIRD. 

Ere last year's moon had left the sky, 
A birdling sought my Indian nest, 

And folded, oh ! so lovingly, 
Its tiny wings upon my breast. 

From mom till evening's purple tinge. 
In winsome helplessness she lies ; 

Two rose-leaves, with a silken fringe. 
Shut softly on her starry eyes. 

There 's not in Ind a lovelier bird ; 

Broad earth owns not a happier nest; 
God, thou hast a fountain stirred. 

Whose waters never more shall rest ! 

This beautiful, mysterious thing. 
This seeming visitant from Heaven, 

This bird with the immortal wing, 
To me — to me, thy hand has given. 

The pulse first caught its tiny stroke. 
The blood its crimson hue, from mine : 

This life, which I have dared invoke, 
Henceforth is parallel with thine. 

A silent awe is in my room — 
I tremble with delicious fear ; 

The future, with its light and gloom. 
Time and eternity are here. 

Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise ; 

Hear, oh my God ! one earnest prayer : 
Room for my bird in paradise. 

And give her angel plumage there ! 

Maulmain, (India,) January, 1848. 

* Lucretia and Margaret Davidson. 



ELIZABETH J. EAMES. 



Mrs. Eames, whose maiden name was 
Jesup, is a native of the state of New York, 
and her early years were passed on the banks 
of the Hudson. In 1837 she was married to 
Mr. W. S. Eames, and removed to New Hart- 
ford, near Utica, where she has since resi- 
ded. Mrs. Eames was for several years a 
contributor to Mr. Greeley's New Yorker, 
and she now writes frequently for The Tri- 



bime ; but many of her more carefully fin- 
ished poems have appeared in Graham's 
Magazine and the Southern Literary Mes- 
senger. She writes with feeling ; but she re- 
gards poetry as an art, and to the cultivation 
of it she brings her best powers. While 
thoughtful and earnest, therefore, her pieces 
are for the most part distinguished for a 
tasteful elegance. 



CROWNING OF PETRARCH. 

AnuATED in a monarch's royal robes. 

With gold and purple gleaming. 
And the broidered banners of the proud 

Colonna o'er him streaming — 
With the gorgeous pomp and pageantry 

Of the Anjouite's court attended, 
He came, that princely son of song : 
And the haughtiest nobles rendered 
Adoring homage to the laureate bard, [starred. 
Whose sky was luminous — with fame and glory 
And following his triumphal car, 

Rome's youthful sons came singhig 
His passion kindled melodies. 

With the silver clarion ringing 
A prouder music — harp, and lute. 

And lyre, all sweet sounds blending — 
And the orient sun-god on his way 
In dazzling lustre bending : 
And radiant flowers their gem-like splendor shed 
O'er the proud march that to the Eternal City led! 
In all its ancient grandeur was 

That sceptrad city drest. 
And pealing notes and plaudits rang 

For him its sovereign guest ; 
The voice of the Seven Hills went up 

From kingly hall and bower, 
And throngs with laurel boughs poured forth 
To grace that triumph hour ; 
While censers wafted rich perfume around, 
And the glowing air with mirth and melody was 
crowned I 
On, onward to the Capitol, 

Italia's children crowded — 
Over three hundred triumphs there 

The sun had sat unclouded : 
For crowned kings and conquerors haught' 

Had trod that path to glory. 
And poets won bright wreaths and names 
To live in song and story ! 
But ne'er before, king, bard, or victor came. 
Winning such honors for his name and poet-fame. 



The glittering gates are passed, and he 

Hath gained the imperial summit, 
And deep rich strains of harmony 

Are proudly floating from it : 
Incense — sunshine — and the swelling 

Shout of a nation's heart beneath him, 

Go up to his glorious place of pride, 

While the kingly Orsos wreathe him ! 

Well may the bard's enraptured heart beat high. 

Filled with the exulting thought of his gift's bright 

victory. 

Crowned one of Rome ! from that lofty height 

Thou wear'st a conqueror's seeming — 
Thy dark, deep eye with the radiance 

Of inspiration beaming ; 
Thou 'st won the living wreath for which 

Thy young ambition panted ; 
Thy aspiring dream is realized : 
Hast thou one wish ungranted ? 
Kings bow to the might of thy genius-gifted mind : 
Hast thou one unattained hope, in the deep heart 
enshrined ? 

Oh, wreathed lord of the lyre of song ! 

Even then thy heart was haunted 
With one wild and passionate wish to lay 

That crown, a gift enchanted. 
Low at her feet, whose smile was more 

I'han glory, fame, or power — 
For whose dear sake was won, and worn. 
The glittering laurel flower ! 
Oh, little worth thy bright renown to thee. 
Unshared by her, the star of thy idolatry ! 

Thanks to thy lyre ! she li^eth yet, 

Oh poet, in thy numbers — 
The peerless star of Avignon, 

Who shone o'er all thy slumbers : 
Entire and sole idolatry 

At Laura's shrine was given, 
Yet was her life-lot severed far 
From thine as earth and heaven I 
And thoUjthe crowned of Rome — gifted and great — 
Stood in thy glory still alone and desolate ! 
946 



ELIZABETH J. EAMES. 



247 



THE DEATH OF PAN. 

From the Ionian sea a voice came sighing — 

A voice of mournful sweetness and strange power, 
Borne on the scented breeze when day was dying, 

Through fair Arcadie's sylvan groves and bowers, 
Along her thousand sunny colored rills — 

Her fairy peopled vales and haunted fountains — 
Along her glens, and grots, and antique hills, 

And o'er her vine-hung, purple tinted mountains. 
Was heard that piercing, haunting voice, which said. 
The God of Song, the once great Pan, is dead ! 

The old SUeni in their sparry caves — [cesses — 

The fauns and wood nymphs in their green re- 
The lovely naiads by the whispering waves — 

The oriads, through all their mountain passes. 
Wept when that voice thrilled on the silent air : 

The stately shepherd, and the soft eyed maiden. 
Who dwelt in Arcadie — the famed and fair 

Wept — for that moaning voice, with sorrow laden, 
Told that the sylvan king, with his gay court, 
Would join no more their song and greenwood sport. 

Died he in Thessaly, that land enchanted 1 

In Tempe's ever rich, romantic vale ? 
By clear Peneus, whose classic tide is haunted 1 

Or did Olympus listen to the wail 
Of all his satyrs ? Died he where 

His infancy to Sinoe's care was given, 
When first his flute-tones melted on the air. 

And filled with music Grecia's glorious heaven '! 
Where many a wild and long remembered strain 
He poured for shepherdess and rustic swain 1 

Ah yes ! he died in Arcadie, and never 

Unto his favorite haunts did mirth return : 
The voice of song was hushed by wood and river, 

Long did liis children for his presence yearn — 
But never more by old Alpheus' shore 

Was heard the song-voice of the god of gladness ; 
His tuneful reed its nunrbers poured no more 

Where Dian and her oriads roved in sadness ; 
The soul of love and melody had fled 
Far from Arcadie — the great Pan was dead ! 



CLEOPATKA. 

EsfCHANTREss queen ! whose empire of the heart 

With sovereign sway o'er sea and land extended. 
Whose peerless, haunting charms, and siren art. 

Won from the imperial Csesar conquests splendid : 
Rome sent her thousands forth, and foreign powers 

Poured in thy woman's hand an empire's treasures. 
Was Fate beside thee in those gorgeous hours 

When monarchs knelt, slaves to thy merest pleas- 
When but a gesture of thy royal hand [ures 1 
Was to the proud triumvirs a command. 

Oh, bright Egyptian queen ! thy day is past 

With the young Cjesar — lo ! the spell is broken 
That thy all radiant beauty o'er him cast ; 

His eye is cold — wo for thy grief unspoken ! 
Yet thy proud features wear a mask, which tells 

How true thou art to thy commanding nature : 
Once more, in all thy wild, bewildermg spells, [ture ; 

Thou standest robed and crowned, imperial crea- 



Thy royal barge is on the sunny sea — 

Oh, sceptred queen ! goest thou victoriously ? 

But hark ! a trumpet's thrilling call to arms 

O'er the soft sounds of lute and lyre ringeth ! 
Doubt not thy matchless sovereignty of charms, 

But haste — the victor of Philippi bringeth 
His shielded warriors and lords renowned ; [thee, 

With spear and prmcely crest they come to meet 
Arrayed for triumph, and with laurels crowned : 

How will their stern and haughty leader treat thee 1 
He comes to conquer — lo ! on bended knee 
The spell-bound Roman pleads, and yields to thee ! 

Once more the world is thine : exultingly 

Thy beautiful and stately head is lifted. 
He lives but in thy smile — proud Antony, 

The crowned of empire — he, the grandly gifled. 
The spoils of nations at thy feet are laid — 

The wealth of kingdoms for thy favor scattered : 
Oh, siren of the Nile ! thy love has made 

The royal Roman's ruin ! crowns were shattered 
And kingdoms lost : fame, honor, glory, power, 
Were playthings given to grace thy triumph-hour. 

Another change ! the last for thee, doomed queen, 

Now calmly on thine ivory couch reclining — 
The impassioned glow hath left thy marble mien, 

Andfrom thy night-black eyeshathpasttheshining. 
But still a queen ! that brow, so icy cold. 

Its diadem of starry jewels beareth : 
Robed in the royal purple, and the gold. 

No conqueror's chain that form imperial beareth. 
To grace Death's triumph was but left for thee. 
Daughter of Afric, by the asp set free ! 



MY MOTHER. 

Mr mother ! oft as thy dear name I mention, 
Or trace thine image in my musing dream. 

How strain my heart nerves to their fullest tension ; 
How swells and bounds, like an imprisoned stream, 

My restless spirit to go forth to thee. 

Whose dear, dear face, I in each nightly vision see. 

Dear mother, of the thousand strings which waken 
The sleeping harp within the human heart. 

The longest kept in tune, though ofl forsaken. 
Is that in which the mother's voice bears part : 

Her still, small voice, which e'en the careless ear 

Turneth with deep reverence and pure delight to 
hear 

But once, kind mother, might this aching forehead 
Feel the soft pressure of thy gentle hand — 

Could this poor heart, that so hath pined and sor- 
rowed. 
Yet once more feel its pulse of hope expand 

At thy dear presence — oh, mother, might this be, 

I could die blessing God, for one last look at thee ! 

For one last word — alas ! that I should ever 
E'en carelessly have caused thy heart a pain ! 

How oft, amid my late life's " fitful fever," 
Thy many acts of kindness rise again — 

Unheeded then, but well remembered now : 

Oh for thy blessuig said once more above my brow ! 



248 



ELIZABETH J. EAMES. 



Fond wish, but vain ! and I am weak to smother 
The human yearnings that my bosom fill ; 

Thou canst but hope and pray, dear distant mother. 
That the All-pitying may aid me still — 

Aid thy frail child to lift, in lowly trust, 

The burden of her heart above this trembling dust. 

And pray that as the shadowy hour draws nearer, 

God may iiTadiate and purify 
My spirit's inmost vision, to see clearer 

Through Death's dim veil the pathway to the sky ! 
Mother beloved ! oh let this comfort thee. 
That in yon blissful heaven shall no more part- 
ings be. 



SONNETS. 

I. MILTON". 

Leahset) and illustiious of all poets thou, 

Whose Titan intellect sublimely bore 
The weight of years unbent — thou, on whose brow 

Flourished the blossom of all human lore : 
How dost thou take us back, as 'twere by vision. 

To the grave learning of the Sanhedrim ; 
And we behold in citings Elysian, 

Where waved the white wings of the cherubim ; 
But, through thy "Paradise Lost," and " Regained," 

We might, enchanted, wander evermore. 
Of all the genius-gifted thou hast reigned 

King of our hearts; and till upon the shore 
Of the Eternal dies the voice of Time, [sublime. 
Thy name shall mightiest stand — ^pure, brilliant, and 



II. dutdes. 
Not dearer to the scholar's eye than mine, 

(Albeit unlearned in ancient classic lore,) 

The daintie poesie of days of yore — 
The choice old English rhyme — and over thine. 

Oh, " glorious John," delightedly I pore : 
Keen, vigorous, chaste, and full of harmony, 

Deep in the soil of our humanity 

It taketh root, until the goodly tree 
Of poesy puts forth green branch and bough, [gloom 

With bud and blossom sweet. Through the rich 
Of one embowered haunt I see thee now, [bloom. 

Where 'neath thy hand the " Flower and Leaflet" 
That hand to dust hath mouldered long ago, 
Yet its creations with immortal life still glow. 



III. ADDISON. 

Thou, too, art worthy of all praise, whose pen, 

" In thoughts that breathe, and words that bum," 
did shed 

A noontide glory over Milton's head — 
He, " prince of poets" — thou, the prince of men : 

Blessings on thee, and on the honored dead ! 
How dost thou charm for us the touching story 

Of the lost children in the gloomy wood — 
Haunting dim memory with the early glory 

That in youth's golden years our hearts imbued. 
From the tine world of olden poetry. 

Lifelike and fresh, thou bringest forth again 

The gallant heroes of an earlier reign, 
And blend them in ourmindswith thoughts of thee. 
Whose name is ever shrined in old-world memory. 



IV. TASSO. 

Above thy golden verse I bent me late. 
And read of bright Sophronia's lover young — - 

Of fair Erminia's flight — Clorinda's fate : 
While over Godfrey's deeds enwrapt I hung — 
And Tancred's, told in soft Italia's tongue ! 

Thou who didst tune thy harp for Salem's shrine — 
Thou the renowned and gifted among men — 
Tasso, superior with the sword and pen : 

Oh, poet-heir ! vain was the dower divine 
To still the unrest of thy human heart ! 

Lonely and cold did Glory's star-beam shine 
For him who saw a lovelier fight depart ! 

Oh, master of the lyre ! did not thy touch [much. 

Tell how the heart may break,that Love has troubled 



T. TO THE AUTHOHESS OF THE SIXLESS CHILD. 

Oft as I bend o'er thy sweet *' sinless child," 

I pause to think of thee, oh, ladye fair ! 

And fancy conjures up a vision rare 
Of grace ethereal and beauty mild ; 

I picture thee with soft and gleamy hair, 
Down shapely shoulders floating goldenly — 

With Eva's eye, and brow, and spiritual air, 
And purest lip — 'tis thus I picture thee. 

I know not if this shadowy ideal 

Do justice to the animated real. 
I ne'er have looked upon thy form of face, 

Albeit they tell me thou art passing fair ; 

I know but of the Intellectual there, 
And shape from thence all loveliness and grace. 



VI. TO THE AUTHORESS OF THE SINLESS CHILD. 

(CONTINUED.) 

Lady I less easy were it now to tell 
How the soft radiance of thy dove-like eyes 

Won me to love thee, by its mingled spell 
Of tenderness and graceful majesty — 
And how thy voice, the " ever soft and low," 

Like music strains returns to haunt me now. 

Thine, too, is the far higher charm, which hath 
Its pure source in the spirit depth below : 

For thou hast dallied in no idle path, 

But, in the free aspiring of thy soul. 
Hast gloriously disproved tlie common faith, 
That man alone may reach the mental goal. 

Oh, lady dear ! still on thine honored head [shed. 

Blessings of heaven and earth a thousand fold be 



Tir. THE PAST. 

In her strange, shadowy coronet she weareth 

The faded jewels of an earlier time ; 
An ancient sceptre in her hand she beareth — 

The purple of her robe is past its prime. 
Through her thin silvery locks still dimly shineth 

The flower wreath woven by pale Mem'ry's fingers. 
Her heart is withered — yet it strangely shrineth 

In its lone urn a light that fitful lingers. 
With her low, muffled voice of mystery, [pages ; 

She reads old legends from Time's mouldering 
She telleth the present the recorded history 

And change perpetual of bygone ages : 
Her pilgrim feet still seek the haunted sod [trod. 
Onceours,butnowbynaughtbutmemory'sfootsteps 



ELIZABETH J. EAMES. 



349 



Tin. riEM PERBIDI. 

When tlie Emperor Titus remembered, at niglit, that he bad done no- 
tbing beneficial during tbe day, be used to e.-iclaiin, ' I have lost a dayl' 

GREATtT wise ! thou of the crown and rod, 

Robed in the purple majesty of kings — 
Power was thine own where'er thy footsteps trod, 

Yet didst thou mourn if Time on idle wings 
Went by for thee ! Deep sunk ill thought wert 

And sadness rested on thy noble brow, [thou — 
If, when the dying day closed o'er thy head, 

Thou hadst no knowledge gained, no good con- 
ferred ; 

" Diem Perdidi" was the thought that stirred 
Thy conscious soul, when night her curtain spread. 

Oh emperor, greatly wise ! could we so deal 
With misspent hours, and win thy faith sublime. 

We should not be (mid the soul's fnute appeal) 
Such triflers with the solemn trust of Time ! 



IX., X. BOOKS. 

"Of making many boolts there is no end : and much study ifl a weari- 
ness of the flesh." — Solomon. 

" Op making many books there is no end," 

Said the wise monarch of the olden time ; 

Yet, through all ages and in every clime 
Doth the pale seeker o'er his studies bend, 
The intellectual Numen to obey, 

Eager and anxious still : still doth he toil 
(Making the night familiar as the day) 

To find the clew to loose the ravelled coil — 
To pierce the depth of things that hidden lie 

The oil of life consumeth : this he knoweth. 
Yet, with a feverish brow and streaming eye, 

He seeks to find — and patiently bestoweth 
His midnight laborings in Wisdom's mine, [shine. 
To win for earth the gems that midst its darkness 

" Much study is a weariness.'' The sage 
Who gave his mind, to seek and search until 

He knew all wisdom, found that on the page 
Knowledge and Grief were vow'd companions still. 

And so the students of a later day 
Sit down among the records of old Time 
To hold high commune with the thoughts sublime 

Of minds long gone ; so they too pass away. 
And leave us what 1 their course, to toil, reflect, 

Tofcel the thorn pierce through ourgathered flowers. 
Still midst the leaves the earth-worm to detect. 

And this is knowledge : wisdom is not ours. 
Oh ! well the Preacher bids his son admonished be. 
That all the days of man's short life are vanity ! 



THE PICTURE OF A DEPARTED POETESS. 

Tkis still, clear, radiant face ! doth it resemble 

In each fair, faultless lineament thine own 1 
Methinks on that enchanting lip doth tremble 

The soul that breathes thy lyre's melodious tone. 
The soul of music, oh ! ethereal spirit, 

Fills the dream-haunted sadness of thine eyes ; 
Sweet poetess ! thou surely didst inherit 

Thy gifts celestial from the upper skies. 

Clear on the expansion of that snow-white forehead 
Sits intellectual beauty, meekly throned ; 



Yet oh, the expression tells that thou hast sorrowed, 
And in thy yearning, human heart, atoned 

For thy soul's lofty gifts ! — on earth, oh never 
Was the deep thirsting of thy bosom stilled ! 

The " aching void" followed thee here for ever — 
The better land thy dream of love fulfilled. 



CHARITY. 

All stainless in the holy white 

Gf her broad mantle, lo I the maiden cometh : 

Lip, cheek, and brow, serenely bright, 

With that calm look of deep delight. 

Beautiful ! on the mountain-top she roameth. 

" The soft gray of the brooding dove" 
With melting radiance in her eye she weareth ; 

Her heart is full of trust and love — 

For an angel mission from above. 
In tranquil beauty, o'er the earth she beareth. 

The music of humanity 
Flows fi-om her tuneful lips in sweetest numbers ; 

Of all life's pleasant ministries — 

Of universal harmonies — 
She sings : no care her mind encumbers. 

Glad tidings doth she ever sound — 
Good will to man throughout the world is sending; 

Blessings and gifts she scatters round ; 

Peace to her name, with whom is found 
The olive branch, in holy beauty bending. 



FLOWERS IN A SICK ROOM. 

Ye are welcome to my darkened room, 

meek and lonely wildwood flowers ! 
Ye are welcome, as light amid the gloom 

That hangs upon my weary hours. 
Here by my lowly couch of languishment and sorrow 
Your station take, that I may from your presence bor- 
Lessons of hope, and lowly trust, [row 

That He whose touch revived your bloom 
Hath the same power o'er this poor dust. 
To raise it from the shadowy tomb ! 

Thanks for your presence ! for ye bring 

Back to the aching heart and eye 
Bright visions of the festal Spring, 

Its blossoms, birds, and azure sky. [tranged, 
Now, far fi-om each green haunt and sunny nook es- 
Fading and faint, I lie ; yet in my heart unchanged 
Glows the same love for you, fair flowers. 

As when my unchained footsteps trod 
Lightly amidst your forest bowers. 

Ami plucked ye from the dewy sod ! 
And Thou, who gavest these grateful flowers, 

1 bless thee for thy thought of me ! 
And that through long and painful hours 

My vigils have been shared by thee, [faltered, 

Iblesstheeforthekindnessandcarewhichne'erhave 

For the noble, loving heart that through ill remains 

A httle while, companion dear, [unaltered ! 

And e'en thy watchful care shall cease : 
Oh, grieve not when the hour draws near. 
But thank Heaven that it bringeth peace! 



EMELINE S. SMITH. 



Miss Emeline Sherman, dotvMks. Smith, 
was born in New Baltimore, Greene county. 
New York, and in 1S36 was married to Mr. 
James M. Smith, of the New York bar. Mrs. 
Smith has been a contributor to several of 
the leading literary journals, and in 1847 
she published a volume entitled The Fairy's 



Search, and other Poems, in which she has 
evinced considerable fancy, and a poetical 
vein of sentiment. Her distinguishing char- 
acteristics are a religious delight in nature, 
and a contentment witli home affections and 
pleasures, which in one form or another are 
the materiel of the finest poetry of women. 



HYMN TO THE DEITY, 
IN THE CONTEMPLATION OE NATURE. 

Thou Giver of all earthly good — 

Thou wonder-working Power, 
Whose spirit smiles in every star, 

And breathes in every flower : 
How gratefully we speak thy name — 

How gladly own thy sway ! 
How thrillingly thj' presence feel, 

When mid thy works we stray ! 

We may forget tliee for a time. 

In scenes with tumult rife. 
Where worldly cares or pleasures claim 

Too large a share of Ufe ; 
But not in Nature's sweet domain. 

Where everything we see. 
From loftiest mount to lowliest flower. 

Is eloquent of thee. 

Where waves lift up their tuneful voice, 

And solemn anthems chime ; 
Where winds through echoing forests peal 

Their melodies sublime ; 
Where e'en insensate objects breathe 

Devotion's grateful lays — 
Man can not choose but join the choir 

That hymns his Maker's praise. 

Beneath the city's gilded domes, 

In temples decked with care, 
Where Art and Splendor vie to make 

Thine earthly mansions fair. 
Our forms may lowly bend, our lips 

May breathe a formal lay. 
The whilst our wayward hearts refuse 

These holy rites to pay. 

But in that grander temple, reai'ed 

By tliine Almighty hand. 
Where glorious beauty bids the mind's 

Diviner powers expand. 
Our thoughts, like grateful vassals, give 

An homage glad and free ; 



Our souls in adoration bow, 
And mutely reverence Thee. 



WE'VE HAD OUa SHARE OP BLISS, 
BELOVED. 

We 've had our share of bliss, beloved, 

We've had our share of bliss; 
And mid the varying scenes of life. 

Let us remember this. 
If sorrows come, from vanished joy 

We '11 borrow such a hglit 
As the departed sun bestows 

Upon the queen of night : 
And thus, by Memory's moonbeams cheered, 

Hope's sun we shall not miss. 
But tread life's path as gay as when 

We had our share of bliss. 

'Tis true our sky hath had its clouds. 

Our spring its stormy hours — 
When we have mourned, as all must mourn, 

O'er blighted buds and flowers ; 
And true, our bark hath sometimes neared 

Despair's most desert shore, 
When gloomy looked the waves around, 

And dark the land before : 
But Love was ever at the helm — 

He could not go amiss. 
So long as two fond spirits sang, 

" We 've had our share of bhss." 

These holy watchwords of the Past 

Shall be the Future's stay — 
For by their magic aid we '11 keep 

A host of ills at bay. 
Our happy hearts, like tireless bees. 

Have revelled mid the flowers. 
And hived a store of summer sweets 

To cheer life's wintry hours ; 
While Memory lives, and Love remains, 

We '11 ask no more than this — • 
But ever sing, in grateful strains, 

" We 've had our share of bhss." 
350 



S. MARGARET FULLER. 



Miss Margaret Fuller is best known as 
a prose writer. HerWoman in the Nineteenth 
Century, Papers on Literature and Art, Sum- 
mer on the Lakes, etc., entitle her undoubt- 
edly to be ranked among the first authors of 
her sex. I have recently re-read these works, 
incited to do so by the apparent candor and 
decided sagacity displayed in the Letters she 
has written to The Tribune during her resi- 
dence in Europe ; and I confess some change 



of opinion in her favor since writing the 
article upon her in The Prose Writers of 
America. Few can boast so wide a range 
of literary culture ; perhaps none write so 
well with as much facility ; and there is 
marked individuality in all her productions. 
As a poet, we have few illustrations of her 
abilities ; but what we have are equal to her 
reputation. She is said to have written much 
more poetry than she has published. 



GOVERNOR EVERETT RECEIVING THE 
INDIAN CHIEFS, NOVEMBER, 1837. 

Who says that poesy is on the wane, 
And that the Muses tune their lyres in vain ? 
Mid all the treasures of romantic story. 
When thought was fresh and fancy in her glory. 
Has ever Art found out a richer theme. 
More dark a shadow, or more soft a gleam. 
Than fall upon the scene, sketched carelessly, 
In the newspaper column of to-day 1 

American romance is somewhat stale. 
Talk of the hatchet, and the faces pale. 
Wampum and calumets, and forests dreary, 
Once so attractive, now begins to weary. 
Uncas and Magawisca please us still — 
Unreal, yet idealized with skill ; 
But every poetaster, scribbling witling, 
From the majestic oak his stylus whittling, 
Has helped to tire us, and to make us fear 
The monotone in which so much we hear 
Of " stoics of the wood," and " men without a tear." 

Yet Nature, ever buoyant, ever young, 
If let alone, will sing as erst she sung : 
The course of circumstance gives back again 
The picturesque, erewhile pursued in vain — 
Shows us the fount of romance is not wasted. 
The lights and shades of contrast not exhausted. 

Shorn of his strength, the Samson now must sue 
For fragments from the feast his fathers gave ; 
The Indian dare not claim what is his due. 
But as a boon his heritage must crave : 
His stately form shall soon be seen no more 
Through all his father's land, th' Atlantic shore ; 
Beneath the sun, to us so kind, they melt — 
More heavily each day our rule is felt : 
Tbe tale is old — we do as mortals must ; 
Might makes right here, but God and Time are just. 

So near the drama hastens to its close. 
On this last scene awhi'e your eyes repose : 
The polished Greek and Scythian meet again, 
The ancient life is lived by modern men — 



The savage through our busy cities walks — • 
He in his untouched grandeur silent stalks ! 
Unmoved by all our gayeties and shows. 
Wonder nor shame can touch him as he goes; 
He gazes on the marvels we have wrought. 
But knows the models from whence all was brought ; 
In God's first temples he has stood so oft. 
And listened to the natural organ loft — [heard, 
Has watched the eagle's flight. the muttering thunder 
Art can not move him to a wondering word ; 
Perliaps he sees that all this luxury 
Brings less food to the mind than to the eye ; 
Perhaps a simple sentiment has brought 
More to him than your arts had ever taught. 
What are the petty triumphs Art has given, 
To eyes familiar with the naked heaven 1 

All has been seen — dock, railroad, and canal, 
Fort, market, bridge, college, and arsenal, 
Asj^lum, hospital, and cotton-mill. 
The theatre, the lighthouse, and the jail. 
The Braves each novelty, reflecting, saw. 
And now and then growled out the earnest yaw ; 
And now the time is come, 'tis understood, 
^V'hen, having seen and thought so much, a talk 

may do some good. 
Awehdressedmobhavethrongedthesight to greet, 
And motley figures throng the spacious street; 
Majestical and calm through all they stride. 
Wearing the blanket with a monarch's pride ; 
The gazers stare and shrug, but can't deny 
Their noble forms and blameless symmetry. 
If the Great Spirit their morale has slighted. 
And wigwam smoke their mental culture blighted, 
Yet the physique, at least, perfection reaches. 
In wilds where neither Combe nor Spurzheim 

teaches — 
Wliere whispering trees invite man to the chase, 
And bounding deer allure him to the race. 

■Would thou hadst seen it ! That dark, stately 
AVhose ancestors enjoyed all this fair land, [band, 
M^hence they, by force or fraud, were made to flee, 
Are brought, the white man's victory to see. 
351 



252 



S. MARGARET FULLER. 



Can kind emotions in their proud hearts glow, 
As through these realms, nowdeckedby art, they go? 
The church, the school, the railroad, and the mart — 
Can these a pleasure to their minds impart 1 
All once was theirs — earth, ocean, forest, sky — 
How can they joy in what now meets the eye 1 
Not yet Religion has unlocked the soul, 
Nor each has learned to glory in the whole ! 

Must they not think, so strange and sad their lot. 
That they by the Great Spirit are forgot ? 
From the far border to which they are driven. 
They might look up in trust to the clear heaven ; 
But here — what tales doth every object tell 
Where Massasoit sleeps — where Philip fell ! 

We take our turn, and the philosopher 
Sees through the clouds a hand which can not err, 
An unimproving race, with all their graces 
And all their vices, must resign their places ; 
And human culture rolls its onward flood 
Over the broad plains steeped in Indian blood. 
Such thoughts steady our faith — yet there will rise 
Some natural tears into the calmest eyes — 
Which gaze where forest princes haughty go, 
Made for a gaping crowd a raree show. 

But this a scene seems where, in courtesy. 
The pale face with the forest prince could vie. 
For One presided who, for tact and grace. 
In any age had held an honored place — 
In Beauty's own dear day, had shone a polished 
Phidian vase ! 

Oft have I listened to his accents bland. 
And owned the magic of his silvery voice. 
In all the graces which hfe's arts demand, 
Delighted by the justness of his choice. 
Not his the stream of lavish, fervid thought — 
The rhetoric by passion's magic wrought ; 
Not his the massive style, the lion port, 
Which with the granite class of mind assort ; 
But, in a range of excellence his own. 
With all the charms to soft persuasion known. 
Amid our busy people we admire him — "elegant 
and lone." 

He siarce needs words, so exquisite the skill 
Which modulates the tones to do his will, 
That the mere sound enough would charm the ear. 
And lap in its Elysium all who hear. 
The intellectual paleness of his cheek, 

The heavy eyelids, and slow, tranquil smile. 
The well cut lips from which the graces speak. 

Fit him alike to win or to beguile ; 
Then those words so well chosen, fit, though few. 
Their linked sweetness as our thoughts pursue. 
We deem them spoken pearls, or radiant diamond 
dew. 

And never yet did I admire the power 
Which makes so lustrous every threadbare theme — 
Which won for Lafayette one other hour. 
And e'en on July fourth could cast a gleam — 
As now, when I behold him play the host 
With all the dignity which red men boast — ' 
With all the courtesy the whites have lost: 
Assume the very hue of savage mind. 
Yet in rude accents show the thought refined — 
Assume the naivete of infant age, 
And in such prattle seem still more a sage ; 



The golden mean with tact unerring seized, 

A courtly critic shone, a simple savage pleased ; 

The stoic of the woods his skill confessed. 

As all the Father answered in his breast. 

To the sure mark the silver arrow sped. 

The man without a tear a tear has shed : 

And thou hadst wept, had thou been there, to see 

How true one sentiment must ever be. 

In court or camp, the city or the wild, [child. 

To rouse the father's heart, you need but name his 

'T was a fair scene — and acted well by all : 
So here 's a health to Indian braves so tall — 
Our governor and Boston people all ! 



THE SACRED MAEEIAGE. 

Asn has another's life as large a scope 1 
It may give due fulfilment to thy hope. 
And every portal to the unknown may ope. 
If, near this other life, thy inmost feeling 
Trembles with fateful prescience of revealing 
The future Deity, time is still concealing : 
If thou feel thy whole force drawn more and more 
To launch that other bark on seas without a shore, 
And no still secret must be kept in store — 
If meannesses that dim each temporal deed. 
The dull decay that mars the fleshly weed, [seed — 
And flower of love that seems to fall and leave no 
Hide never the full presence from thy sight 
Of mutual aims and tasks, ideals bright, [blight. 
Which feed their roots to-day on all this seeming 
Twin stars that mutual circle in the heaven. 
Two parts for spiritual concord given 
Twin sabbaths that inlock the sacred seven — 
Still looking to the centre for the cause. 
Mutual light giving to draw out the powers. 
And learning all the other groups by cognizance of 

one another's laws : 
The parent love the wedded love includes, 
The one permits the two their mutual moods. 
The two each other know mid myriad multitudes; 
With childlike intellect discerning love. 
And mutual action energizing love. 
In myriad forms affiliating love. 
A world whose seasons bloom from pole to pole, 
A force which knows both starting-point and goal, 
A home in heaven — the union in the soul. 



SONNETS. 

I. OnPHEITS. 

Each Orpheus must to the depths descend. 

For only thus the poet can be wise. 
Must make the sad Persephone his friend. 

And buried love to second life arise ; 
Again his love must lose through too much love. 

Must lose his Ufe by living life too true. 
For what he sought below is passed above, 

Already done is all that he would do ; 
Must tune all being with his single lyre. 

Must melt all rocks free from their primal pain. 
Must search all Nature with his one soul's fire. 

Must bind anew all forms in heavenly chain. 
If he already sees what he must do. 
Well may he shade hiseyes from the far-shining view. 



S. MARGARET FULLER. 



253 



II. insthumentai. music. 
The charms of melody, in simple airs, 

By human voices sung, are always felt ; 

With thoughts responsive careless hearers melt, 
Of secret ills, which our frail nature bears. 

We Usten, weep, forget. But when the throng 
Of a great master's thoughts, above the reach 
Of words or colors, wire and wood can teach 

By laws which to the spirit-world belong — ■ 
A^'hen several parts, to tell one mood combined. 

Flash meaning on us we can ne'er express, 
Giving to matter subtlest powers of mind, 

Superior joys attentive souls confess : 
The harmony which suns and stars obey, [day. 
Blessesourearthbound state with visions of supernal 



III. BEETHOVEX. 

Most intellectual master of the art. 
Which, best of all, teaches the mind of man 
The universe in all its varied plan — 

AVhat sti'angely mingled thoughts thy strains impart! 

Here the faint tenor thrills the inmost heart. 
There the rich bass the Reason's balance shows ; 
Here breathes the softest sigh that Love e'er knows; 

There sudden fancies, seeming without chart. 
Float into wildest breezy interludes ; 

The past is all forgot — hopes sweetly breathe. 

And our whole being glows — when lo I beneath 
The flower}' brink, Despair's deep sob concludes ! 

Startled, we strive to free us from the chain — 

Kotes of high triumph swell, and we are thine again ! 



IT. MOZABT. 

If to the intellect and passions strong 
Beethoven speak, with such resistless power, 
Making us share the full creative hour. 

When his wand fixed wild Fancy's mystic throng, 

Oh, Nature's finest lyre ! to thee belong 
The deepest, softest tones of tenderness. 
Whose purity the listening angels bless, 

AA'ith silvery clearness of seraphic song. 

Sad are those chords, oh heavenward striving soul ! 
A love, which never found its home on earth. 
Pensively vibrates, even in thy mirth, 

And gentle laws thy lightest notes control ; 

Yet dear that sadness ! spheral concords felt 

Purify most those hearts which most they melt. 



T. TO ALLSTOX S PICTURE, "THE BRIDE. 

Not long enough we gaze upon that face. 

Not pure enough the life with which we live, 
To be full tranced by that softest grace. 

To win all pearls those lucid depths can give ; 
Here Fantasy has borrowed wings of Even, 

And stolen Twilight's latest, sacred hues, 
A soul has visited the woman's heaven, 

Where palest lights a silver sheen diffuse. 
To see aright the vision which he saw, 

We must ascend as high upon the stair 
Which leads the human thought to heavenly law, 

And see the flower bloom in its natal air ; 
Thus might we read ai'ight the lip and brow. 
Where Thought and Love beam too subduing for 
our senses now. 



TO EDITH, ON HER BIBTHDAY. 

If the same star our fates together bind. 
Why are we thus divided, mind from mind ] 
If the same law one grief to both impart. 
How couldst thou grieve a trusting mother's heart 7 
Our aspiration seeks a common aim. 
Why were we tempered of such differing frame 1 
— But 'tis too late to turn this wTong to right; 
Too cold, too damp, too deep, has fallen the night ! 
And yet, the angel of my life replies — 
" Upon that night a Morning Star shall rise. 
Fairer than that which ruled the temporal birth, 
Undimmed by vapors of the dreamy earth." 
It says, that, where a heart thy claim denies. 
Genius shall read its secret ere it flies ; 
The earthly form may vanish from thy side. 
Pure love will make thee still the Spirit's bride. 
And thou, ungentle, yet much-loving child. 
Whose heart stillshows Ihe ' untamed haggard wild,' 
A heart which justly makes the highest claim, 
Too easily is checked by transient blame; 
Ere such an orb can ascertain its sphere, 
The ordeal must be various and severe ; 
My prayers attend thee, though the feet may fly, 
I hear thy music in the silent sky. 



LINES WRITTEN IN ILLINOIS. 

FA3iinAn to the childish mind were tales 

Of rock-girt isles amid a desert sea, 
Where unexpected stretch the fiowery vales 

To soothe the shipwrecked sailor's misery. 
Fainting, he lay upon a sandy shore. 
And fancied that all hope of life was o'er ; 
But let him patient climb the frowning wall. 
Within, the orange glows beneath the palm tree tall, 
And all that Eden boasted waits his call. 
Almost these tales seem realized to-day. 
When the long dullness of the sultry way. 
Where independent settlers' careless cheer 
Made us indeed feel we were strangers here. 
Is cheered by sudden sight of this fair spot. 
On which improvement yet has made no blot. 
But Nature all astonished stands, to find 
Her plan protected by the human mind. 
Blest be the kindly genius of the scene : 

The river, bending in unbroken grace. 
The stately thickets, with their pathways green. 

Fair lonely trees, each in its fittest place. 
Those thickets haunted by the deer and fawn ; 
Those cloudlike flights of birds across the lawn ; 
The gentlest breezes here delight to blow, [the show. 
And sun and shower and star are emulous to deck 
Wondering, as Crusoe, we survey the land — 
Happier than Crusoe we, a friendly band : 
Blest be the hand that reared this friendly home. 
The heart and mind of him to whom we owe 
Hours of pure peace such as few mortals know ; 
May he find such, should he be led to roam — • 
Be tended by such ministerijig sprites — 
Enjoy such gayly childish days, such hopeful nights! 
And yet, amid the goods to mortals given. 
To give those goods again is most like Heaven. 



254 



S. MARGARET FULLER. 



ON LEAVING THE WEST. 

Fahevtell, ye soft and sumptuous solitudes ! 

Ye fairy distances, ye lordly woods, 

Haunted by paths like those that Poussin blew, 

When after his all gazers eyes he drew; 

I go — and if I never more may steep 

An eager heart in your enchantments deep, 

Yet ever to itself that heart may say, 

Be not exacting — thou hast lived one day — 

Hast looked on that which matches with thy mood, 

Impassioned sweetness of full being's flood, 

Where nothing checked the bold yet gentle wave, 

Where naught repelled the lavish love that gave. 

A tender blessing lingers o'er the scene, 

Like some young mother's thought, fond, yet serene, 

And througli its life new born our lives have been. 

Once more farewell — a sad, a sweet farewell ; 

And if I never must behold you more, 

In other worlds I will not cease to tell 

The rosary I here have numbered o'er; 

And bright-haired Hope will lend a gladdened ear. 

And Love will free him from the grasp of Fear, 

And Gorgon critics, while the tale they hear, 

Shall dew their stony glances with a tear, 

If I but catch one echo from your spell : 

And so farewell — a grateful, sad farewell ! 



GANYMEDE TO HIS EAGLE." 

SUGGESTED BY A WORK OF THORWALDSEN'S 

Upon- the rocky mountain stood the boy, 

A goblet of jjure water in his hand. 
His face and form spoke him one made for joy, 

A willing servant to sweet love's command ; 
But a strange pain was written on his brow, 
And thrdled throughout his silver accents now : 

" My bird," he cries, " my destined brother friend, 

Oh whither fleets to-day thy wayward flight 1 
Hast thou forgotten that I here attend. 

From the full noon until this sad twilight 1 
A hundred times, at least, from the clear spring, 

Since the full noon o'er hill and valley glowed, 
I've filled the vase which our Olympian king 

Upon my care for thy sole use bestowed ; 
That, at the moment when thou shouldst descend, 
A pure refreshment might thy thirst attend. 

Hast thou forgotten earth — forgotten me. 
Thy fellow bondsman in a royal cause. 

Who, from the sadness of infinity. 
Only with thee can know that peaceful pause 

In which we catch the flowing strain of love 

Which binds our dim fates to the throne of Jove t 

Before I saw thee I was like the May, 

Longing for suuimer that must mar its bloom, 
Or like the morning star that calls the day. 

Whose glories to its promise are the tomb ; 
And as the eager fountain rises higher. 

To throw itself more strongly back to earth. 
Still, as more sweet and full rose my desire, 

More fondly it reverted to its birth ; 

* Composed on thp heicht called the Eagle's Nest^ Ore- 
gon, Rock River, July 4, 1843. 



For, what the rosebud seeks tells not the rose — 
The meaning foretold by the boy the man can not 

disclose. 
I was all spring, for in my being dwelt 

Eternal youth, where flowers are the fruit; 
Full feeling was the thought of what was felt — 

Its music was the meaning of the lute : 
But heaven and earth such life will still deny. 
For earth, divorced from heaven, still asks the ques- 
tion, Why 1 
Upon the highest mountains my young feet 

Ached, that no pinions from their lightness grew. 
My starlike eyes the stars would fondly greet. 

Yet win no greeting from the circling blue ; 
Fair, self-subsistent each in its own sphere. 

They had no care that there was none for me : 
Alike to them that I was far or near, 

AUke to them, time and eternity. 
But, from the violet of lower air, 

Sometimes an answer to my wishing came. 
Those lightning births my nature seemed to share. 

They told the secrets of its fiery frame — 
The sudden messengers of hate and love. 
The thunderbolts that arm the hand of Jove, 
And strike sometimes the sacred spire, and strike 

the sacred grove. 
Come in a moment, in a moment gone, 
They answered me, then left me still more lone ; 
They told me that the thought which ruled the world 
As yet no sail upon its course had furled. 
That the creation was but just begun, 
New leaves still leaving fi'om the primal one. 
But spoke not of the goal to which my rapid wheels 

would run. 
Still, still my eyes, though tearfully, I strained 
To the far future which my heart contained. 
And no dull doubt my proper hope profaned. 
At last, oh bliss, thy living form I spied. 

Then a mere speck upon a distant sky ; 
Yet my keen glance discerned its noble pride. 

And the full answer of that sun-filled eye : 
T knew it was the wing tliat must upbear 
My earthlier form into the realms of air. 
Thou knowesthowwe gained thatbeauteousheight. 
Where dwells the monarch of the sons of light. 
Thou knowest he declared us two to be 
The chosen servants of his ministry — 
Thou as his messenger, a sacred sign 
Of conquest, or with omen more benign. 
To give its due weight to the righteous cause, 
I'o express the verdict of Olympian laws. 
And I wait upon the lonely spring. 

Which slakes the thirst of bards to whom 'tis given 
The destined dues of hopes divine to sing. 

And weave the needed chain to bind to heaven : 
Only from such could be obtained a draught 
For him who in his early home from Jove's own 

cup has quafi'ed. 
To wait, to wait, but not to wait too long. 
Till heavy grows the burthen of a song ; 
Oh bird ! too long hast thou been gone to-day. 
My feet are weary of Iheir frequent way — 
The spell that opes the spring my tongue no more 
can say. 



S. MARGARET FULLER. 



255 



If soon thou com'st not, night will fall around, 
My head with a sad slumber will be bound. 
And the pure draught be spilt upon the ground. 
Remember that I am not yet di^'ine, 
Long years of service to the fatal Nine 
Are yet to make a Delphian vigor mine. 
Oh, make them not too hard, thou bird of Jove, 
Answer the stripling's hope, confirm his love, 
Receive the service in which he delights. 
And bear him often to the serene lieights, 
^Vhere hands that were so prompt in serving thee, 
Shall be allowed the highest ministry, 
And Rapture live with bright Fidelity. 



LIFE A TEMPLE. 

The temple round 
Spread green the pleasant ground; 

The fair colonnade 
Be of pure marble pillars made ; 
Strong to sustain the roof. 

Time and tempest proof. 
Yet amid which the lightest breese 

Can play as it please : 

The audience hall 

Be free to all 

Who revere 
The Power worshipped here. 

Sole guide of youth, 

Unswerving Truth: 

In the inmost shrine 

Stands the image divine, 
Only seen 
By those whose deeds have worthy been — 

Priestlike clean. 
Those, who initiated are. 

Declare, 

As the hours 
Usher in var}dng hopes and powers ; 

It changes its face. 

It changes its age — 

Now a young beaming grace, 

Now Nestorian sage : 

But, to the pure in heart. 

This shape of primal art 

In age is fair. 

In youth seems wise, 

Beyond compare. 

Above surprise : 
What it teaches native seems. 

Its new lore our ancient dreams ; 
Incense rises from the ground. 
Music flows around ; 
Firm rest the feet below, clear gaze the eyes above, 
When Truth to point the way through life assumes 
the wand of Love ; 
But, if she cast aside the robe of green. 

Winter's silver sheen, 

White, pure as light. 
Makes gentle shroud as worthy weed as bridal 
robe had been. 



ENCOURAGEMENT. 

For the Power to whom we bow 
Has given its pledge that, if not now, 
They of pure and steadfast mind. 
By faith exalted, truth refined. 
Shall hear all music loud and clear, 
"Whose first notes they ventured here. 
Then fear not thou to wind the horn. 
Though elf and gnome thy courage scorn : 
Ask for the castle's king and queen — 
Though rabble rout may rush between. 
Beat thee senseless to the ground, 
in the dark beset thee round — 
Persist to ask and it will come. 
Seek not for rest in humbler home : 
So shalt thou see what few have seen, 
The palace home of King and Queen. 



GUNHILDA. 

A 3rATnEN sat beneath the tree. 
Tear-bedewed her pale cheeks be 
And she sigheth heavily. 

From forth the wood into the light 
A hunter strides with carol light. 
And a glance so bold and bright. 

He careless stopped and eyed the maid : 
" Why weepest thou V he gently said ; 
" I love thee well — be not afraid." 

He takes her hand, and leads her on ; 
She should have waited there alone. 
For he was not her chosen one. 

He leans her head upon his breast : 
She knew 'twas not her home of rest, 
But all ! she had been sore distressed. 

The sacred stars looked sadly down ; 
The parting moon appeared to frown. 
To see thus dimmed the diamond crown. 

Then from the thicket starts a deer : 
The huntsman, seizing on his spear. 
Cries, " Maiden, wait thou for me here." 

She sees him vanish into night, 

She starts from sleep in deep affright. 

For it was not her own true knight ! 

Though but in dream Gunhilda failed, 
Though but a fancied ill assailed, 
Though she but fancied fault bewailed — 

Yet thought of day makes dream of night: 
She is not worthy of the knight. 
The inmost altar burns not bright. 

If loneliness thou canst not bear, 

Can not the dragon's venom dare. 

Of the pure meed thou shouldst despair. 

Now sadder that lone maiden sighs. 

Far bitterer tears profane her eyes. 

Crushed in the dust her heart's flower hes. 



LYDIA JANE PEIRSON. 



Ltdia Jane Wheeler, now Mrs. Peie- 
soN, was born in Middletown, Connecticut, 
and when sixteen years of age removed with 
her parents to Canandaigua, New York,where 
she was soon after married. Her husband 
purchased a tract of land in Liberty, Tioga 
county, one of the wildest districts of north- 
ern Pennsylvania, and commenced there his 
career as a pioneer farmer, five miles from 
any other habitation, and nearly twenty from 
any village. Mrs. Peirson appears to have 
been ill fitted for such a life, but the solitude 
of the forest was cheered by the presence of 
the Muse, and for several years her contri- 
butions appeared irequently in The New- 
Yorker, The Southern Literary Messenger, 
and other periodicals. A pleasing incident 
in her history is related in the following com- 
munication from a correspondent : " At a pe- 
riod when the best abilities of Pennsylvania 
were active in recommending plans for the 
general education of the people, Mr. Thad- 
deus Stevens, now a member of Congress, 
but then a representative in the state legis- 
lature, made a masterly speech upon the sub- 
ject, which was seconded by a spirited and 
elegant poem that attracted general atten- 
tion. Judge Ellis Lewis, so well known as 
one of our most accomplished jurists, was 
deeply interested in the movement, and ac- 



tively engaged in efforts to induce its suc- 
cess. Pleased with the poem, he made in- 
quiries respecting its author, and learned that 
her husband, by a series of misfortunes, had 
been reduced to a condition of extreme pe- 
cuniary embarrassment, and that his family 
was without a home. Meeting Mr. Stevens, 
who is scarcely less known for his generosity 
than for those splendid powers which have 
raised him to so high a rank in his profes- 
sion and among the managers of affairs, he 
communicated to him the circumstances, and 
suggested that something should be done for 
the relief of the poetess. Mr. Stevens au- 
thorized the judge to consult with Mrs. Peir- 
son, purchase for her such a farm as she 
might select, and draw on him for the cost. 
Neither Judge Lewis nor Mr. Stevens had 
ever seen her, but the former apprized her 
of his commission, and the design was exe- 
cuted. She chose a beautiful little estate 
which chanced to be in the market ; it was 
purchased by Judge Lewis ; the deed, drawn 
to Thaddeus Stevens in trust for Lydia Jane 
Peirson and her heirs and assigns, was sent 
to her ; and she now lives upon it in pleasant 
independence." 

Mrs. Peirson has published two volumes 
of poems — Forest Leaves, in 1845, and The 
Forest Minstrel, in 1847. 



MY SONG. 

'Tis not for fame 
That I awaken with my simple lay 
The echoes of the forest. I but sing 
As sings the bird, that pours her native strain, 
Because her soul is made of melody ; 
And lingering in the bowers, her warblings seem 
To gather round her all the tuneful forms [flowers. 
Whose bright wings shook rich incense from the 
And balmy verdure of the sweet young Spring, 
O'er which the glad Day shed his brightest smile. 
And Night her purest tears. I do but sing 
Like that sad bird who in her loneliness 
Pours out in song the treasures of her soul, 
Whichelse would burst her bosom,whichhasnaught 
On which to lavish the warm streams that gush 
Up from her trembling heart, and pours them forth 
Upon the sighing winds in fitful strains. 



Perchance one pensive spirit loves the song, 
And hngers in the twiUght near the wood 
To list her plaintive sonnet, which unlocks 
The sealed fountain of a hidden grief 
That pensive listener, or some playful child, 
May miss the lone bird's song, what time her wings 
Are folded in the calm and silent sleep. 
Above her broken heart. Then, though they weep 
In her deserted bower, and hang rich wreaths 
Of ever-living flowers upon her grave. 
What will it profit her who wouUl have slept 
As deep and sweet without them'! 

Oh ! how vain 
With promised garlands for the sepulchre. 
To think to cheer the soul, whose daily prayer 
Is but for bread and peace ! whose trembling hopes 
For immortality ask one green leaf 
From off the healing trees that grow beside 
The pure, bright river of Eternal Life. 
236 



LYDIA JANE PEIRSON. 



257 



MY MUSE. 

Born of the sunlight and the dew, 

That met amongst the flowers, 
That on the river margin grew 

Beneath the willow bowers ; 
Her earliest pillow was a wreath 

Of violets newly blown, 
And the meek incense of their breath 

At once became her own. 

Her cradle-hymn the river sung, 

In that same liquid tone 
With which it gave, when Earth was young. 

Praise to the Living One. 
The breeze that lay upon its breast 

Responded with a sigh ; 
And there the ring-dove built her nest 

And sung her lullaby. 

The only nurse she ever knew 

Was Nature, free and wild : 
Such was her birth, and so she grew 

A moody, wayward child. 
Who loved to climb the rocky steep, 

To ford the mountain-stream, 
To lie beside the sounding deep, 

And .weave the magic dream. 

She loved the path with shadows dim. 

Beneath the dark-leaved trees, 
Where Nature's winged poets sing 

Their sweetest melodies ; 
To dance amongst the pensile stems 

Where blossoms bright and sweet 
Threw diamonds from their diadems 

Upon her fairy feet. 

She loved to watch the day-star float 

Upon the aerial sea, 
Till Morning sunk his pearly boat 

In floods of radiancy ; 
To see the angel of the storm 

Upon his wind-winged car. 
With dark clouds wrapped around his form, 

Come shouting from afar; 

And pouring treasures rich and free. 

The pure, refreshing rain, 
Till every weed and forest-tree 

Could boast its diamond chain : 
Then rising, with the hymn of praise, 

That swelled from hill and dale. 
Display the rainbow, sign of peace, 

Upon its misty veil. 

She loved the waves' deep utterings — 

And gazed with phrcnsied eye 
When Night shook lightning from his wings. 

And winds went sobbing by. 
Full oft I chid the wayward child, 

Her wanderings to restrain ; 
And sought her airy limbs to bind 

With Caution's worldly chain. 

I bade her stay within my cot. 

And ply the housewife's art : 
She heard me, but she heeded not — 

Oh, who can bind the heart ! 

77 



I told her she had none to guide 

Her inexperienced feet 
To where, through Tempe's valley, glide 

Castalia's waters sweet ; 

No son of Fame, to take her hand 

And lead her blushing forth. 
Proclaiming to the laurelled band 

A youthful sister's worth ; 
That there were none to help her climb 

The steep and toilsome way, 
To where, above the mists of Time, 

Shines Genius' living ray ; 

Where, wreathed with never-fading flowers, 

The harp immortal lies. 
Fining the souls that reach those bowers 

With heavenly melodies. 
I warned her of the cruel foes 

That throng that rugged path, 
Where many a thorn of misery grows. 

And tempests wreak their wrath. 

I told her of the serpents dread. 

With malice-pointed fangs, 
Of yellow-blossomed weeds that shed 

Derision's maddening pangs ; 
And of the broken, mouldering lyres 

Thrown carelessly aside, 
Telling the winds, with shivering wires, 

How noble spirits died ! 

I said, her sandals were not meet 

Such journey to essay — 
(There should be gold beneath the feet 

That tempt Fame's toilsome way :) 
But while I spoke, her burning eye 

Was flashing in the light 
That shone upon that mountain high, 

Insufferably biight. 

While streaming from the Eternal Lyre, 

Like distant echoes came 
A strain that wrapped her soul in lire. 

And thrilled her trembling frame. 
She sprang away, that wayward child — 

" The harp ! the harp !" she cried ; 
And still she climbs and warbles wild 

Along the mountain-side. 

TO AN ^OLIAN HARP. 

Thou 'ht like my heart, thou shivering string, 

Of wild and plaintive tone ; 
Thrilled by the slightest zephyr's wing, 

That over thee is thrown ; 
Replying with melodious wail 

'To every passing sigh. 
And pouring to the fitful gale 

Wild bursts of harmony. 
Still by the tempest's torturing power 

Thy loftiest notes are rung, 
And in the stormy midnight hour 

Thy holiest hymns are sung. 
Thou'rt like my heart, thou trembling string. 

That lovest the gentle breeze — 
Yet yieldest to the tempest-king 

Thy loftiest melodies. 



258 



LYDIA JANE PEIRSOPi. 



TO THE WOOD B-OBIN. 

Bird of the twilight hour ! 

My soul goes forth to mingle with thy hymn, 
Which floats like slumber round each closing flower, 

And weaves sweet visions through the forest dim. 

Where Day's sweet warblers rest, 

Each gently rocking on the waving spray, 

Or hovering the dear fledglings in the nest 
Without one care-pang for the coming day. 

Oh, holy bird, and sweet 

Angel of this dark forest, whose rich notes 
Gush like a fountain in the still retreat. 

O'er which a world of mirrored beauty floats : 

My spirit drinks the stream. 

Till human cares and passions fade away ; 
And all my soul is wrapped in one sweet dream 

Of blended love, and peace, and melody. 

Sweet bird ! that wakest alone 

The moonlight echoes of the flowery dells, 
When every other winged lute is flown. 

And insects sleeping all in nodding bells ; 

I bow my aching head. 

And wait the unction of thy voice of love : 
I feel it o'er my weary spirit shed. 

Like dew from balmy flowers that bloom above. 

Oh ! when the loves of earth 

Are silent birds, at close of life's long day, 
May some pure seraphim of heavenly birth 

Bear on its holy hymn my soul away ! 



THE WILD-WOOD HOME. 

Oh, show me a place like the wild-wood home. 

Where the air is fragrant and free. 
And the first pure breathings of morning come 

In a gush of melody. 
She lifts the soft fiinge from her dark-blue eye 

With a radiant smile of love. 
And the diamonds that o'er her bosom lie 

Are bright as the gems above ; 

Where Noon lies down in the breezy shade 

Of the glorious forest bowers, 
And the beautiful birds from the sunny glades 

Sit nodding amongst the flowers. 
While the holy child of the mountain-spring 

Steals past with a murmured song. 
And the honey-bees sleep in the bells that swing 

Its garlanded banks along ; 

Where Day steals away with a young bride's blush. 

To the soft green couch of Night, 
And the Moon throws o'er with a holy hush 

Her curtain of gossamer light ; 
And the seraph that sings in the hemlock dell, 

Oh, sweetest of birds is she, 
Fills the dewy breeze with a trancing swell 

Of melody rich and free. 

There are sumptuous mansions with marble wails, 

Surmounted by glittering towers. 
Where fountains play in the perfumed halls 

Amongst exotic flowers ; 



They are suitable homes for the haughty in mind. 
Yet a wild-wood home for me, [wind. 

Where the pure bright streams, and the mountain- 
And the bounding heart, are free ! 



ISABELLA. 

FROM "OCEAN MELODIES." 

In what fair grotto of the deep-green sea 

Where rich festoons of sea-flowers darkly wave, 
From trees of brilliant coral, that enwreathe 

Their priceless branches through the marble cave ; 
Where rings for evermore the solemn knell 
Of tinkling waters in the tuneful shell ; 
Where pensive sea-maids come in groups to weep. 
Dost thou, my precious Isabella, sleep 1 
Thou beautiful enchantment ! thou wert like 

A delicately wrought transparency. 
Through wliich all angel-forms of tenderness 

Shone in the light of maiden purity ; 
Thy cheelc was Love's pure altar, where he laid 
Witli playful hand his roses pale and red. 
While bathing in thine eyes of liquid blue. 
By full-fringed curtains half concealed from view. 
Spring has no blossom fairer than thy form ; 

Winter no snow-wreath purer than thy mind ; 
The dewdrop trembling to the morning beam 

Is like thy smile, pure, transient, heaven-refined : 
But ever o'er thy soul a shadow lay, 
Still more apparent in the sunniest day ; 
And ever when to bliss thy heart beat high, 
The swell subsided in a plaintive sigh. 
When I would speak of bliss, thou wouldst reply, 

" Hush ! for I feel that all our hopes are vain ; 
Some spirit whispers that I soon must die. 

And every thrill of hope is mixed with pain." 
At length thy drooping form did prove too well 
That there was poison in life's failing well ; 
And then we sought youth's freshness to renew 
Beneath a sky of softer sun and dew. 
We journeyed with thee many a mournful day, 

Till thou wert weary of the fruitless toil, 
And pra3'ed that we would take our homeward way 

That thou mightst slumber in thy native soil. 
I knelt and clasped thee in a wild embrace, 
Concealing in thy robes my anguished face ; 
Yet still thy snowy shoulder felt my tears. 
And still thine ^EoUan voice was in mine ears. 
I felt thy presence — and the veil of life 

Was still between the coffia-scene and me ; 
And Hope and Skill maintained their anxious strife, 

Contending strongly with stern Destiny. 
But when I saw thee dead, and felt the chill 
Of thy white hand, so nerveless and so still. 
When as my tears fell on thy lovely face — 
There was no voice, no smile, no consciousness! 
And when I saw thy form — so fair, so pure, 

So dear, so precious — cast into the sea, 
O God of mercy ! how did I endure 

The torture of that fearful agony ] 
Oh, peerless sleeper ! down in the deep sea 
My heart is in that billowy world with thee ; 
And still my spirit lingers on the wave 
That rolls between my bosom and thy grave. 



LYDIA JANE PEIRSON. 



259 



SUNSET IN THE FOREST. 

Come now unto the forest, and enjoy 
The loveUness of Nature. Look abroad 
And note the tender beauty and repose 
Of the magnificent in earth and sky. 
See what a radiant smile of golden light 
O'erspreads the face of heaven ; while the west 
Bums like a living ruby in the ring 
Of the deep green horizon. Now the shades 
Are deepening round the feet of the tall trees, 
Bending the head of the pale blossoms down 
Upon their mother's bosom, where the breeze 
Comes with a low, sweet hymn and balmy kiss, 
To lull them to repose. Look now, and see 
How every mountain, with its leafy plume, 
Or rocky helm, with crest of giant pine, 
Is veiled with floating amber, and gives back 
The loving smile of the departing sun. 
And nods a calm adieu. Hark ! from the dell 
Where sombre hemlocks sigh unto the streams. 
Which with its everlasting harmony 
Returns each tender whisper, what a gush 
Of liquid melody, like soft, rich tones 
Of flute and viol, mingling in sweet strains 
Of love and rapture, float away toward heaven ! 
'Tis the ^doleo, from her sweet place 
Singing to Nature's God the perfect hymn 
Of Nature's innocence. Does it not seem 
That Earth is listening to that evening song t — 
There's such a hush on mountain, plain, and streams. 
Seems not the Sun to linger in his bower 
On yonder leafy summit, pouring forth 
His glowing adoration unto God, 
Blent with that evening hymn, while every flower 
Bows gracefully, and mingles with the strain 
Its balmy breathing ] Have you looked on aught 
In all the panoply and bustling pride 
Of the dense city with its worldly throng. 
So soothing, so delicious to the soul. 
So like the ante-chamber of high heaven. 
As this old forest, with the emerald crown 
Which it has worn for ages, glittering 
With the bright halo of departing day, 
While from its bosom living seraphim 
Are hymning gratitude and love to God ? 



THE LAST PALE FLOWERS. 

The last pale flowers are drooping on the stems. 

The last sere leaves fall fluttering from the tree. 
The latest groups of Summer's flying gems 

Are hymning forth a parting melody. 
The wings are heavy-winged and linger by, 

Whispering to every pale and sighing leaf; 
The sunlight falls all dim and tremblingly, 

Like love's fond farewell through the mist of grief. 
There is a dreamy presence everywhere. 

As if of spirits passing to and fro ; 
We almost hear their voices in the air, 

And feel their balmy pinions touch the brow. 
We feel as if a breath might put aside 

The shadowy curtains of the spirit-land. 
Revealing all the loved and glorified 

That Death has taken from Affection's band. 



We call their names, and listen for the sound 

Of their sweet voices' tender melodies ; 
We look almost expectantly around 

For those dear faces with the loving eyes. 
We feel them near us, and spread out the scroll 

Of hearts whose feelings they were wont to share. 
That they may read the constancy of soul 

And all the high, pure motives written there. 
And then we weep, as if our cheek were pressed 

To Friendship's holy, unsuspecting heart, 
Which understands our own. Oh, vision blest ! 

Alas, that such illusions should depart ! 
I oft have prayed that Death may come to me 

In such a spiritual, autumnal day ; 
For surely it would be no agony 

With all the beautiful to pass away. 



TO THE WOODS. 

CoiE to the woods in June — 

'Tis happiness to rove 
When Nature's lyres are all in tune. 

And life all full of love 

While fi'om the dewy dells. 

And every wildwood bower, 
A thousand little feathered bells 

Ring out the matin hour. 

Come when the sun is high. 

And earth all full in bloom. 
When every passing summer sigh 

Is languid with perfume ; 
When by the mountain-brook 

The watchful red-deer lies, 
And spotted fawns in mossy nook 

Have closed their wild, bright eyes ; 
While from the giant tree. 

And fairy of the sod, 
A dreamy wind-harp melody 

Speaks to the soul of God — ■ 
Whose beauteous gifts of love 

The passing hours unfold. 
Till e'en the sombre hemlock-boughs 

Are tipped with fringe of gold. 

Come when the sun is set. 

And see along the west 
Heaven's glory streaming through the gate 

By which he passed to rest ; 
While brooklets, as they flow 

Beneath the cool, sweet bowers. 
Sing fairy legends sofl and low 

To groups of listening flowers ; 
And creeping, formless shades 

Make distance strange and dim, 
And with the daylight softly fades 

The wild-bird's evening hymn. 

Come when the woods are dark. 

And winds go fluttering by. 
While here and there a phantom bark 

Floats in the deep blue sky ; 
While gleaming far away 

Beyond the aerial flood. 
Lies in its starry majesty 

The city of our God. 



JANE T. WORTHINGTON. 



Jane Tatloe Lojiax, a daughter of the 
late Colonel Lomax of the United States 
army, was a native of Virginia, and was con- 
nected with several of the most distinguished 
families of that state. She was educated iu 
different parts of the country, as the exigen- 
cies of the military service led to changes 
of residence by her father, and her large op- 
portunities were improved by a genial inter- 
course with various society, and a minute 
and loving observation of nature. Her affec- 
tions, however, always centred in the " Old 
Dominion," and nearly all her productions 
appeared in the Southern Literary Messen- 



ger, which was edited by a personal friend, at 
Kichmond. She excelled most in the essay, 
and there are few better illustrations of wo- 
manly feeling and intelligence than may be 
found in her numerous compositions of this 
kind, which were written in the four or five 
years of her literary life. Her poems, sim- 
ple, graceful, and earnest, are reflections of 
a character eminently truthful, refined, and 
pleasing. She was married, in 1843, to F. 
A.Worthington, M. D., of Ohio, and she died, 
lamented by a wide circle of literary and per- 
sonal friends, m 1S47. No collection of her 
works has been published. 



TO THE PEAKS OF OTTER. 

Faik are the sunset hues, thy dark brow blessing, 

Oh mountain, with their gift of golden rays ; 
And the few floating clouds, thy crest caressing. 

Seem guardian angels to my raptured gaze : 
I have looked on thee through the saddest tears 

That ever human sorrow taught to flow. 
And thou wilt come, in life's recalling years, 

Lhiked with the memory of my deepest wo. 

Yet well I love thee, in thy silent mystery, 

Thy purple shadows and thy glowing light — 
Thou art to me a most poetic history 

Of stillest beauty and of stormiest might : 
I owe thee, oh, sublime and solemn mountain, 

For many hours of vision and of thought. 
For pleasant draughts from fancy 'sgushingfountain. 

For bright illusioiis by thy presence brought. 

And more I thank thee, for the deeper learning 

That soothes my spirit as I look on thee, 
For thou hast laid upon my soul's wild yearning 

The holy spell of thy tranquillity : 
I shall recall thee with a long regretting. 

And often pine to see thy brow, in vain. 
While Thought, returning, fond and unforgetting, 

Will trace thy form in glory-tints again. 

And thou, in thine experience, all material, 

Wilt never know how worshipped thou hast been ; 
No glimpses of the life that is ethereal 

Shadow thy face, eternally serene ! 
Thou hast not felt the impulse of resistance — 

Thy lot has Unkcd thee with the earth alone : 
Thou art no traveller to a new existence. 

Thou hast no future to be lost or won. 

The past for thee contains no bitter fountain — 
Thou hast no onward mission to fulfil : 



And I would learn from thee, oh silent mountain. 
All things enduring, to be tranquil still I 

And now, with that fond reverence of feeUng 
We owe whatever wakes our loftiest thought, 

I can hut ofier thee, in faint revealing, 
These idle thanks for all that thou hast brought. 



LINES 

TO ONE WHO WILL UNDERSTAND THEM. 

I HAVE been reading, tearfully and sadly, 

The lines we read together long ago. 
When our experience glided on so gladly, 

We loved to Hnger o'er poetic wo. 
We both have changed : our souls at last are finding 

Their destiny — in silence to endure ; 
And the strong ties, our best affections binding, 

Are not the dreamlike ones our hearts once wore. 

We live no longer in a world elysian. 

With life's deep sorrowing still a thing to test ; 
And we have laid aside — a vanished vision — ■ 

The hope once wildly treasured as our best. 
Yet though the tie that then our thoughts united 

Lies severed now, a bright but broken chain — 
Though other love hath lavishly requited 

That early one, so passionate and vain — 

Still, as I read the lines we read together. 

Now hallowed by our parting's bitter tears. 
As mournfully my spirit questions, Whither 

Have gone the sweet illusions of those years ! 
I close the book, such vain remembrance bringing 

Of all that now 't were wiser to forget : 
Say, are your thoughts, like mine, still idly clinging 

To those old times of rapture and regret ^ 



JANE T. WORTHINGTON. 



261 



MOONLIGHT ON THE GRAVE. 

It sliineth on the quiet graves 

Where weary ones have gone, 
It watcheth with angelic gaze 

Where the dead are left alone ; 
And not a sound of busy life 

To the still graveyard comes, 
But peacefully the sleepers lie 

Down in their silent homes. 

All silently and solemnly 

It throweth shadows round, 
And every gravestone hath a trace 

In darkness on the ground : 
It locketh on the tiny mound 

Where a little child is laid, 
And it lighteth up the marble pile 

Which human pride hath made. 

It falleth with unaltered ray 

On the simple and the stem, 
And it showeth with a solemn light 

The sorrows we must learn ; 
It telleth of divided ties 

On which its beam hath shone, 
It whispereth of heavy hearts 

Which " brokenly live on." 

It gleameth where devoted ones 

Are sleeping side by side, 
It looketh where the maiden rests 

Who in her beauty died. 
There is no grave in all the earth 

That moonlight hath not seen ; 
It gazeth cold and passionless 

Where agony hath been. 

Yet it is well : that changeless ray 

A deeper thought should throw. 
When mortal love pours forth the tide 

Of unavailing wo ; 
It teacheth us no shade of grief 

Can touch the starry sky. 
That all our sorrow liveth here — 

The glory is on high ! 



THE CHILD'S GRAVE. 

It is a place where tender thought 

Its voiceless vigil keepeth ; 
It is a place where kneeling love. 

Mid all its hope, still weepeth : 
The vanished Ught of all a life 

That tiny spot encloseth, 
Where, followed by a thousand dreams, 

The little one reposeth. 

It is a place where thankfulness 

A tearful tribute giveth : 
That one so pure hath left a world 

Where so much sorrow liveth — 
Where trial, to the heavy heart, 

Its constant cross presenteth. 
And every hour some trace retains 

For which the soul repenteth. 



It is a place for Hope to rise. 

While other brightness waneth. 
And from the darkness of the grave 

To learn the gift it gaineth — 
From Him who wept, as on the earth 

Undying love still weepeth — 
From Him who spoke the blessed words, 

" She is not dead, but sleepeth." 



THE POOR. 

Have pity on them ! for their life 

Is full of grief and care : 
You do not know one half the woes 

The very poor must bear ; 
You do not see the silent tears 

By many a mother shed. 
As childhood offers up the prayer, 

" Give us our daily bread." 

And sick at heart, she turns away 

From the small face, wan with pain, 
And feels that prayer has long been said 

By those young Hps in vain. 
You do not see the pallid cheeks 

Of those whose years are few. 
But who are old in all the griefs 

The poor must struggle through. 

Their lot is made of misery 

More hopeless day by day. 
And through the long cold winter nights 

Nor light nor fire have they ; 
But little children, shivering, crouch 

Around the cheerless hearth. 
Their young hearts weary with the want 

That drags the soul to earth. 

Oh, when with faint and languid voice 

The poor implore your aid, 
It matters not how, step by step, 

Their misery was made ; 
It matters not, if shame had left 

Its shadow on their brow — 
It is enough for you to see 

That they are suffering now. 

Deal gently with these wretched ones, 

Whatever wrought their wo. 
For the poor have much to tempt and test 

That you can never know : 
Then judge theni not, for hard indeed 

Is their dark lot of care ; 
Let Heaven condemn, but human hearts 

With human faults should bear. 

And when within your happy homes 

You hear the voice of mirth. 
When smiling faces brighten round 

The warm and cheerful hearth. 
Let charitable thoughts go forth 

For the sad and homeless one. 
And your own lot more blest will be. 

For every kind deed done. 
Now is the time the very poor 

Most often meet your gaze — 
Have mercy on them, in these cold 

And melancholy days. 



363 



JANE T. WORTHINGTON. 



SLEEP. 

" He givetli liis beloved sleep." 

It visitelh the desolate, 

Who hath no friend beside, 
And bringeth peace to saddened souls 

Whose hope, deferred, had died : 
It layeth its caressing hand 

Upon the brow of care. 
And calleth to the faded lips 

The smile they used to wear. 

And lovely is the angel light 

Of a little child's repose, 
The holiest and the sweetest rest 

Our human nature knows — ■ 
Such rest as can not close the eyes 

Grown old with many tears. 
That never soothes the pilgrim path 

Of life's dejected years. 

" He giveth his beloved sleep !" 

All thanks for such a boon. 
And thanks, too, for the deeper sleep 

That will be with us soon — 
From which our long o'erladen hearts 

Shall wake to pain no more, 
But find fulfilled the fairest thoughts 

They only dreamed before ! 



TO TWILIGHT. 

Pale Memory's favored child thou art, 
And many dreams are thine ; 

With thine existence, all the past 
Returning seems to twine. 

Thou bringest to the souls bereaved 
The look and tone they miss ; 

Thou callest from another world 
The best beloved of this. 

Thou comest like a veiled nun, 
With footstep sad and slow ; 
Thou summonest the solemn prayer 
From heart and lip to flow. 

Thou givest to fentastic things 

A real shape and hue. 
And thou canst, like a poet's dream, 

Idealize the true. 

Oh, if thy coming thus recalls 

The past upon our sight. 
How must the guilty shrink from thee, 

Thou sad and solenni light ! 

How mvist the hard and hopeless heart 

Thy mystic power repel — 
What fearful fantasies must fill 

The convict's haunted cell ! 



How must his young and better days 

Upon his visions dawn — 
How bitterly that ruined soul 

Must mourn its brightness gone ! 

Oh, often at thy thoughtful hour, 

Beside the happy hearth, 
My busy fancy flies to these, 

The lost ones of the earth. 

A voice amid their solitude 

Is sounding evermore — 
God help them in that loneliness 

So fearful to endure ! 



THE WITHERED LEAVES. 

Thet are falling thick and rapidly. 

Before the autumn breeze. 
And a sudden sound of mournfulness 

Is heard among the trees, 
Like a wailing for the scattered leaves, 

So beautiful and bright. 
Thus dying in their sunny hues 

Of loveliness and light. 

The wind that wafts them to their doom 

Is the same that swept along 
In the freshness of their summer-time, 

And blessed them with its song : 
That voice is still the merry one 

That mid the sunshine fell — 
Ye are not missed, ye glowing leaves, 

By the friend ye loved so well. 

But j'et, no fearful fate is yours. 

No shuddering at decay. 
No shrinking from the blighting gust 

That bears your hfe away : 
The spring-tide, with its singing birds, 

Hath long ago gone by — 
Ye had your time to bloom and live, 

Ye have your time to die. 

Oh, would that we, the sadder ones, 

Who linger on the earth. 
Like ye might wither when our lives 

Had parted with their mirth : 
Ye glow with beauty to the last, 

And brighten with decay, 
Ye know not of the mental war 

That wears the heart away. 

Ye have no memories to recall. 

No sorrows to lament. 
No secret weariness of soul 

With all your pleasures blent: 
To us alone the lot is cast. 

To think, to love, to feel — - 
Alas ! how much of human wo 

Those few brief words reveal ! 



SARAH ANNA LEWIS. 



Miss Robinson, now Mrs. Lewis, is a na- 
tive of Baltimore. Slie inherits from her 
father, who was a Cuban, of English and 
Spanish parentage, and a man of liberal for- 
tune and cultivated understanding, the mel- 
ancholy temperament which is illustrated in 
the greater part of her writings. After be- 
ing carefully educated — in part at the cele- 
brated school of Mrs. Willard, in Troy — she 
was married to Blr. L. D. Lewis, an attorney 
and counsellor, who soon after removed to 
Brooklyn, where they have since resided. 

The earliest writings of Mrs. Lewis ap- 
peared in the Family Magazine, edited by 
the well-known Solomon Southwick, of Al- 
bany. She came more prominently before 
the public in Records of the Heart, published 
in New York in 1844. The principal poems 
in this volume — Florence, Zenel, Melpome- 
ne, and Laone — are of considerable length, 
and of a more ismbitious design than most of 
the compositions of our female poets. That 
they evince fancy and an ear sensitive to har- 
mony, will be understood from the following 
lines of Florence : 

The waves are smooth, the wind is calm ; 
Onward the golden stream is gliding. 

Amid the myrtle and the palm, 
And dices its margin hiding; 

Now sweeps it o'er the jutting shoals 

la murmurs like despairing souls ; 

Now deeply, softly, flows along 

Like ancient minstrels' warbled song ; 

Then slowly, darkly, thoughtfully, 

Loses itself in the mighty sea. 

The sky is clear, the stars are bright. 

The moon reposes on her light ; 

On many a budding, fairy blossom, 
Are glittering Evening's dewy tears, 

As gleam the gems on Beauty's bosom 
When she in festal garb appears. 

Among the minor poems in this collection 
is the following, which is quoted here for its 
merits and for the praises it has received from 
the acute critic Mr. Edgar A. Foe, who de- 
scribes it as "inexpressibly beautiful:" 

THE FORSAKEN. 
It hath been said, for all who die 

There is a tear ; 
Some pining, bleeding heart to sigh 

O'er every bier : 



But in that hour of pain and dread 

Who will draw near 
Around my humble couch, and shed 

One farewell tear 1 

Who watch life's last, departing ray 

In deep despair. 
And soothe my spirit on its way 

With holy prayer ? 
What mourner round my bier will come 

" In weeds of wo," 
And follow me to my long home — 

Solemn and slow 1 

When lying on my clayey bed, 

In icy sleep. 
Who there by pore affection led 

Will come and weep — 
By the pale moon implant the rose 

Upon my breast, 
And bid it cheer my dark repose, 

My lowly rest 1 

Could I but know when I am sleeping 

Low in the ground, 
One faithful heart would there be 'keeping 

Watch all night round, 
As if some gem lay shrined beneath 

That sod's cold gloom, 
'T would mitigate the pangs of death, 

And light the tomb. 

Yes, in that hour if I could feel 

From halls of glee 
And Beauty's presence one would steal 

In secrecy. 
And come and sit and weep by me 

In night's deep noon — • 
Oh ! I would ask of Memory 

No other boon. 
But ah ! a lonelier fate is mine — 

A deeper wo : 
From all I love in youth's sweet time 

I soon must go — 
Draw round me my cold robes of white, 

In a dark spot 
To sleep through Death's long, dreamless night. 

Lone and forgot. 
There is a very fine poem by Mother- 
well, by which this may have been suggest- 
ed, though if Mrs. Lewis had read it, it was 
of course forgotten by her when she com- 
posed The Forsaken. The following verses 
are from the piece by Motherwell : 
" When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping. 
Life's fever o'er. 
Will there for me be any bright eye weeping, 
That I 'm no more 1 
2S3 



264 



SARAH ANNA LhWIS. 



Will there be any heart still memory keeping 
Of heretofore ! 

" When the bright sun upon that spot is shining 
With purest ray, [twining, 

And the small Bowers their buds and blossoms 
Burst through that clay. 

Will there be one still on that spot repining 
Lost hopes all day ^ 

" When no star twinkles with its eye of glory 
On that low mound. 
And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary 

Its loneness crowned. 
Will there be then one versed in Misery's story 
Pacing it round I" 

In the four years which succeeded the pub- 
lication of The Records of the Heart, Mrs. 
Lewis was an occasional contributor to the 
Democratic Review, the American Review, 
and The Spirit of the Nineteenth Century. 
In the autumn of 184S she published a sec- 
ond volume, entitled The Child of the Sea, 
and Other Poems. The Child of the Sea is 
her best production. It is an interesting sto- 
ry, in a finely modulated rhythm, and with 
many tasteful and happy expressions. It 
evinces passion, fancy, and a degree of im- 
agination. The design is partly unfolded in 
the opening lines: 

Where blooms the myrtle, and the olive flings 
Its aromatic breath upon the air ; 
Where the sad bird of night for ever sings 
Meet anthems for the children of despair. 
Who silently, with wild, dishevelled hair, 
Stray through those valleys of perpetual bloom ; 
Where hideous War and Murder from their lair 
Stalk forth in awful and terrific gloom ; 
Rapine and Vice disport on Glory's gilded tomb : 

My fancy pensive pictures youthful Love, 
Ill-starred, yet trustful, truthful, and sublime. 
As ever angels chronicled above ; 
The sorrowings of Beauty in her prime ; 
Virtue's reward ; the punishment of Crime ; 
The dark, inscrutaBle decrees of Fate ; 
Despair, untold before in prose or rhyme ; 
The wrong, the agony, the sleepless hate, 
That mad the soul and make the bosom desolate. 

Sunset upon the bay of Gibraltar is thus 
happily described : 

Fresh blows the breeze on Tarick's burnished bay, 
The silent sea-mews bend them through the spray ; 
The beauty-ireighted barges bound afar 

To the soft music of the gay guitar 

The sentry peal salutes the setting sun, 
The haven's hum and busy din are done, 
And weary sailors roam along the strand. 
Or stretch their brav? ny limbs upon the sand ; 
Feast, revel, game, engage in sage dispute. 
Unthread the story, sound the tuneful lute ; 
Or humming some rude air that stirs the heart. 
Clue up the sails, or spread them to depart. 



The hero of the poem is introduced: 
On his high brow and glossy locks of jet. 
The cap that decks the noble Greek is set ; 
Folded his arms across his sable vest. 
As if to keep the heart within his breast. 
Lone are the thoughts that crowd upon his mind, 
And vainly strive in speech a vent to find ; 
They writhe, they chafe, against restraint rebel, 
Then powerless shrink within their silent cell. 
His bosom pines for what it never knew — 
Some soft, fair Iieing to its beating true — 

A loveliness round which the soul may cling 

As fades from earth the last soft smile of Day, 
He turns his melancholy steps away, 
With eyes bent down, across the Vega strides. 
Nor notes the fawn that tamely by him glides, 
The violets lifting up their azure eyes, 
Like timid virgins when Love's steps surprise ; 
His heavy heart forebodes some danger near. 
And throbs alternately with joy and fear. 

Night : 
Sleep chains the earth : the bright stars glide on high, 
Filling with one effulgent smile the sky ; 
And all is hushed so still, so silent there. 
That one might hear an angel wing the air. 

Delirium : 
At last, I felt me borne as in a dream, 
And wafted down some softly-gliding stream, 
And heard the creaking cordage over head. 
The sailor's merry song and nimble tread ; 
Then backward sank to mental night again — ■ 
Delirium's world of fmtasy and pain, 
Where hung the fiery moon, and stars of blood 
And phantom-ships rolled on the rolling flood. 

Knowledge : 
My mind by Grief was ripened ere its time. 
And knowledge came spontaneous as a chime, 
That flows into the soul unbid, unsought ; 
On earth, and air, and heaven, I fed my thought ; 
On Ocean's teachings — ^Etna's lava-tears — 
Ruins and wrecks, and nameless sepulchres. 

The Holy Land : 
O God ! it is a melancholy sight 
To see that land whence sprung all sacred light ; 
Delight of men, and most beloved of God ; 
Where, happy first, our primal parents trod ; 
Where Hagar mourned, and Judah's minstrel sung, 
With the dark pall of desolation hung I 
No band of warriors crowd the royal gate, 
No suppliant millions in the temples wait. 
No prophet-minstrel swells the tide of song, 
No mighty seer enchains the breathless throng; 
But from the Jordan to the .^Egean tide. 
From Ganges to Euphrates' fertile side, 
From Mecca's plains to lofty Lebanon, 
The ashes of departed worlds are strewn. 
On Carmel's heights, on Pisgah's tops I stood, 
And paced Epirus' savage solitude ; 
Before the sepulchre of Jesus knelt. 
And by the Galilean waters dwelt ; 
Wandered among Assyria's ruins vast. 
Feeding my mute thoughts on the silent past — 
Pride, splendor, glory, desolation, crime, 
And the deep mystery of the birth of Time. 



SARAH ANNA LEWIS. 



265 



Sleep : 

— The oblivious world of Sleep — - 
That rayless realm where Fancy never beams — 
That nothingness beyond the land of dreams . 

Indifference : 

— There are times when the sick soul 
Lies calm amid the storms that round it roll, 
Indifferent to Fate, or to what haven 
By the terrilic tempest it is driven. 

Greece : 
Shrine of the Gods ! mine own eternal Greece ! 
When shall thy weeds be doft'ed, thy mourning cease, 
The gyves that bind thy beauty rent in twain, 
And thou be living, breathing Greece again 1 
Grave of the mighty — hero, poet, sage — 
Whose deeds are guiding stars to every age ! 
Land unsurpassed in glory and despair. 
Still in thy desolation thou art fair. 
Low in sepulchral dust lies Pallas' shrine — 
Low in sepulchral dust thy fanes divine. 
And all thy visible self — yet, o'er thy clay, 
Soul, beauty, linger, hallowing decay. 
Not all the ills that war entailed on thee. 
Not all the blood that stained Thermopylfe, 
Not a!l the desolation traitors wrought. 
Not all the wo and want invaders brought. 
Not all the tears that slavery could wring 
From out thy heart of patient suffering. 
Not all that drapes thy loveliness in night. 
Can quench thy spirit's never-dying light; 
But hovering o'er the dust of gods enshrined. 
It beams a beacon to the march of mind — 
An oasis to sage and bard forlorn — 
A guiding light to centuries unborn. 

For thee I mourn ; thy blood is in my veins : 
To thee by consanguinity's strong chains 
I'm bound, and fain would die to make thee free; 
But oh, there is no liberty for thee ! 
Not all the wisdom of thy greatest one — 
Not all the bravejy of Thetis' son — 
Not all the weight of mighty Phoebus' ire— 
Not all the magic of the Athenian's lyre. 
Can ever bid thy tears or mourning cease. 
Or rend one gyve that binds thee, lovely Greece ! 

Zamen and Mynera : 

And they were wed : Love chased their tears away. 
As mi.~t5 are driven before the smile of Day, 
Gave softer radiance to both earth and sky, 
And made each lovelier in the other's eye. 
No discord rose to mar their happiness — 
Each morning brought to them untasted bliss; 
No pane's, no sorrows came with varying years ; 
No cold distrust, no faithlessness, no tears : 
But hand in hand, as Eve and Adam trod 
EJen, they walked beneath the smile of God. 
At morn they wandered through the dewy bowers. 
Tended the birds, or trained the garden flowers ; 
Or, weaiy of these health-inspiring arts, 
With music and sweet song refreshed their hearts ; 
Then all day seated in the colonnade. 
Or where the myrtle made a genial shade. 
They pored above the tomes of other days — 
Cervantes' wit, and Ossian's sounding lays ; 



And Dante's dreams, and Petrarch's deathless love ; 
All that mad Tasso into numbers wove ; 
Shakspere's deep harp, and Milton's loftier song : 
From all creations of the minstrel throng, 
Statues and busts by Grecian chisels wrought. 
They drew the nutriment of Love and Thought. 
Then, moved by Genius, Zamen swept his lyre, 
And, like a meteor, flashed its latent fire 
Upon the world, and thrilled its inmost heart: 
All that his soul had gleaned from beauty, art, 
Love, ruin, melancholy, anguish, wrong, 
Revenge, he wove into harmonious song. 
And to his country and to lasting fame 
Bequeathed a cherished and a spotless name. 

Isabelle, or the Broken Heart, is a passion- 
ate storj', with many passages of spirited de- 
scription and narration. In the following 
passage the heroine — a wandering minstrel 
girl who has deserted a noble home to follow 
a false lover — goes to the confessional : 

Wan the mournful maiden now 

Across the balmy valley flies, 
The cold, damp dew upon her brow, 

The hot tears trickling from her eyes — 
The hist that Fate can ever wring 
From her young bosom's troubled spring. 
Swiftly beneath the myrtle she 
Glides onward o'er the moonlit lea ; 
By many a mausoleum speeds. 
And tomb amidst the tuneful reeds. 
Yet falters not — she feels no dread 
When in the presence of the dead — 
Alas ! what awe have sepulchres 
For hearts that have been dead for years — 
Dead unto all external things — 
Dead unto Hope's sweet offerings. 
While with its lofty pinions furled. 
The spirit floats in neither world ! 

She gains at length the holy fane. 
Where death and solemn silence reign; 
Hurries along the shadowy aisles, 

Up to the altar where blest tapers 
Burn dimly, and the Virgin smiles, 

Midst rising clouds of incense vapors ; 
There kneels by the confession chair. 
Where waits the friar with fervent prayer. 
To soothe the children of despair. 

Her hands are clasped, her eyes upraised. 
Meek, beautiful, though coldly glazed. 

And her pale cheeks are paling faster ; 
From under her simple hat of straw, 
Over her neck her tresses flow, 

Like threads of jet o'er alabaster — 
From which the constant dews of night 
Have stolen half their glossy light. 

It is difEcult to give a just impression of 
any narrative poem by a selection of speci- 
mens. But the character and force of the 
abilities of Mrs. Lewis will perhaps be bet- 
ter understood from these fragments than 
from a critical description. 



266 



SARAH ANNA LEWIS. 



LAMENT OF LA VEGA IN CAPTIVITY. 

O patria amada! a ti auspira y lloi-a 
Esta en au carcel alma peregrina, 
Llevada erranilo de uno, en otro instante," 

I AM a captive on a hostile shore, 
Caged, lilie the falcon from his native skies, 

And doomed by a.^onizing grief to pour 
In futile lamentations, tears, and sighs, 
And feed the gaze of fools whom I despise. 

Daily they taunt my heart with bitter sneers — 
They prate of liberty, deeds great and wise, 

And fill the air with patriotic cheers, [ears. 

While human shackles clank around their listless 

Hark ! hear ye not, mid those triumphal cries. 
The clanking of the Ethiopian's chains 1 

His smothered curses from the ricefields rise 1 
The loud, indignant beating of his veins. 
Stirred by the lava hell that in him reigns ? 

Hear'st him not writhe against the dark decree 
That gyves the soul — for it brute-rank maintains '] 

The impetuous rushings of his heart, when he 

Watches the eagle soar into the heavens all free 1 

My soul, appalled, shrinks from hypocrisy, 
And whatsoever bears deceptions name — 

Under thy banner — heaven-born Liberty ! 
The fiends of war, inflated with acclaim. 
Revel in crime and virtue put to shame : 

They slaughter babes and wives without a cause. 
And, holding up their reeking blades, exclaim, 

" A victory !" — demolish homes, rights, laws. 

And o'er the wreck send up to heaven their proud 
hurrahs. 

I am a captive while my country bleeds — 
For Retribution loudly cries to Heaven, 

And for the presence of her warriors pleads. 
Till from her far the ruthless foe is driven : 
O God, O God ! hast thou my country given 

To direful fate 7 Must I lie cooped up here, 
While she by desecrating hands is riven 1 

The sobs of Age, and Beauty's shrieks of fear, 

Like funeral kiiells afar are tolling in my ear ! 

And thou, ethereal one ! my spirit's bride. 
My star, my sun, my universe — the beam 

That lit my youthful feet mid ways untried — 
Within me woke eacji high ambitious scheme, 
And here dost hover o'er me in my dream, 

Pressing thy lips to mine until I feel 
Our quick hearts ebbing into one soft sh'eam 

Of holy love — ah, who will guard thy weal. 

And from thy breast avert the dark marauder's steel ] 

Oh, my distracted country ! child of pain 
And anarchy ! — thee shall I see no more 

Till thou art struggling in the tyrant's chain, 
Oppressed by insult and by sorrow sore. 
And steeping in thy children's sacred gore ? 

Must thy dim star of gloi-y set for aye 1 
Must thou become the poet's Mecca 1 — lore 

For antiquaries 1 — temple of decay 1 

Wilt thou survive no more, my beautiful Monterey t 

Spirit of Cortes — Montezuma — rise ! 

Let not the foe your cherished land enslave ! 
Let her not fall a bloody sacrifice ! 

And thou, eternal Cid ! who from the grave 



Didst wake to lead to victory the brave !* 
Heroes who fell in Roncpsvalles vale, 

And ye who fought by Darro's golden wave,t 
From the Red VegaJ drove the Moslem pale, 
Hear, in the spirit-land, my country's doleful wail ! 



UNA. 

Theue is but little on this earth 
To fill the soul of lofty birth ; 
At best it much must feel the dearth 
Of genial showers. 

It binds Nepenthe to its lips. 
And at life's sparking goblet sips. 
While in the waters fennel dips 
Its bitter flowers. 

But Una, round thy heart's blest shrine, 
No bitter fennel-blossoms twine : 
By odor-breathing flowers divine 
It is embalmed. 

Sere lies my heart, and sere its world, 
Since ihou wert from its altars hurled ; 
My spirit's pinions have been furled, 
Dike sails becalmed. 

Love on my heart thy form did stamp. 
Thy beauty, like a vestal lamp, 
Within my soul's cell, dark and damp, 
For ever burns. 

And unto thee, as to its goal, 
Gazes athirst the stranded soul; 
As points the magnet to the pole, 
My sick heart turns. 



THE DEAD. 

The dead, the dead — ah, where are they 1 
What distant planet do they tread ] 

What stars illume their blissful way ? 

What suns (heir light around them shed 1 

Do they look through the mystic veil 
That hides them from our mortal eyes. 

And catch the mourner's plaintive wail 
That o'er their sepulchres doth rise 1 

Do they the bitter pinings know 

Of friends that hold their memorj^ dear — 
The many sighs — the tears that flow 

Because they dwell no longer here ? 

Oh, if they do, 'tis meed enough 
For all the tears that we must shed : 

The chains of wo we can not doff 
TiU we are numbered with the dead ! 



* Cid Campeador, after death, was dressed in his war 
apparel, placed on Ilia richly caparisoned steed, and led 
forth from the walls of Valencia toward the Moorish 
camp ; at the sight of whom, and the great number of his 
followers, the Moors, in all sixty thousand, fled toward the 
sea. — Sottfhei/'s Chrfinichs of the Cid. 

t The Darro is a small stream running through the city 
of Grenada, and containing in its bed particles of gold. 

I The plain surrounding Grenada, and the scene of ac- 
tion between the Moors and the Christians. 



ANNA CORA MOWATT. 



Anna Coea Ogden, a daughter of Mr. Sam- 
uel Gouverneur Ogden, now of the city of 
New York, was born in Bordeaux during a 
temporary residence of her parents in France. 
Her father's family has long been distin- 
guished in the social and commercial history 
of New York, and her mother was descend- 
ed from Francis Lewis, one of the signers of 
the Declaration of Independence. Mr. Ogden 
had lost the principal portion of a large for- 
tune in. Miranda's celebrated expedition in- 
to South America, and his residence at Bor- 
deaux was occasioned by mercantile affairs 
which in a few years secured for him a sec- 
ond time rank among the great merchants 
and capitalists of his native city. 

A melancholy interest was thrown around 
Mr. Ogden's return, by the loss of two sons, 
who were swept overboard in a storm dur- 
ing the voyage ; but the surviving members 
of the family settled in his old home, and for 
several years the education of the daughters 
occupied and rewarded his best attention. In 
the chateau in which they had lived near 
Bordeaux, they had passed the holydays and 
domestic anniversaries in masques and pri- 
vate theatricals, and there Anna Cora Ogden 
gave, in the abandon Avith which she enact- 
ed childish characters, the first indications 
of that histrionic genius for which she is now 
distinguished. At thirteen she read with de- 
light the plays of Voltaire, and the next year 
she personated the heroine of Alzire on her 
mother's birthday. She had previously be- 
come acquainted with Mr. Mowatt, a young 
lawyer of good family and flattering pros- 
pects, who then became a suitor for her hand, 
and as her parents, to whom the marriage 
was not objectionable, demanded its post- 
ponement until she should be seventeen years 
of age, they eloped and were privately mar- 
ried by one of the French clergymen of the 
city. 

Mr. and Mrs. Mowatt resided several years 
near the city of New York, and in this period 
she wrote Pelayo, or tl|e Cavern of Covadon- 
ga, a poetical romance, in six cantos, which 
was published anonymously by the Harpers 



in 1836. Mr. Mo watt's health having de- 
clined, they seized the occasion of the mar- 
riage of a younger daughter of Mr. Ogden to 
visit Europe. They resided in Germany and 
France a year and a half, and in Paris Mrs. 
Mowatt wrote Gulzare, the Persian Slave, 
a five act play, which was printed in New 
York soon after their return, in 1841. The 
interruption of his business caused by this 
visit to Europe, and the infirm condition of 
his health, induced Mr. Mowatt to abandon 
the profession of the law and to embark in 
trade, and in the period of commercial dis- 
asters which followed, he lost nearly all his 
property. Mr. Ogden had also suffered new 
misfortunes, and these reverses led Mrs. 
Mowatt to the first public display of her abil- 
ities. The dramatic readings of Mr. Van- 
denhoffhad been eminently successful in the 
chief cities of the Union, and, confident of 
her powers, she determined to follow his ex- 
ample. She had already acquired some rep- 
utation in literature, which secured for her 
a favorable reception on her first appearance, 
of which the results more than justified her 
sanguine anticipations. Her readings from 
the poets were repeated to large and applaud- 
ing audiences in Boston, Providence, and 
New York. Mr. Mowatt having become a 
partner in a publishing house, she turned her 
attention again to literary composition, and 
produced in quick succession several vol- 
t5mes, among which were Sketches of Cele- 
brated Persons, and the Fortune Hunter, a 
Novel. In 1844 she wrote Evelyn, or the 
Heart Unmasked, a Tale of Fashionable Life, 
which is the last and in soine respects the 
best of her works of this description. It is 
spirited and witty, but unequal,and was writ- 
ten too hastily and carelessly to be justly re- 
garded as the measure of her talents. 

Her next work was Fashion, a Comedy, 
which was successfully acted in the theatres 
of New York and Philadelphia in the spring 
of 1845 ; and in the following autumn she 
made her brilliant first appearance as an ac- 
tress, at the Park Theatre. She afterward 
made two theatrical tours of the principal 



268 



ANNA CORA MOWATT. 



cities of the United States, and in the spring 
of 1847 she brought out in New York her 
third five act play, Armand, or the Child of 
the People. In November of the same year 
she sailed with her husband for England, and 
she has since played in Manchester and Lon- 
don a wide range of characters, in many of 
which she has won high praises from the 
most judicious critics. 

The poems of Mrs. Mowatt, except Pelayo 



and her dramatic pieces, are brief and fugi- 
tive, and generally wanting in that artistic 
finish of which she has frequently shown her- 
self to be capable. 

All who know her personally, and those 
who are familiar with her history, will join 
in the exclamation of Mary Howitt, in a re- 
cent notice of her, "How excellent in char- 
acter, how energetic, unselfish, devoted, is 
this interestina: woman !" 



THE RAISING OF JAIRUS' DAUGHTER. 

WiTHis the darkened chamber sat 

A proud but stricken form ; 
Upon her vigil-wasted cheeks 

The giief-wrung tears were warm; 
And faster streamed they as she bent 

Above the couch of pain, 
Where lay a withering flower that wooed 

Those fond eyes' freshening rain. 

The raven tress on that young brow 

Was damp with dews of death ; 
And glassier grew her upraised eye 

With every fluttering breath. 
Coldly her slender fingers lay 

Within the mourner's grasp ; 
Lightly they pressed that fostering hand. 

And stiffened in its grasp. 

Then low the mother bent her knee, 

And cried in fervent prayer — 
" Hear me, God ! mine own, my child, 

Oh, holy Father, spare ! 
My loved, my last, mine only one — 

Tear her not yet away ; 
Leave this crushed heart its best, sole joy : 

Be merciful, I pray I" 
A radiance lit the maiden's face. 

Though fixed in death her eye ; 
A smile had met the angel's kiss 

That stole her parting sigh ! 
And round her cold lips still that smile 

A holy brightness shed, ^ 

As though she joyed her sinless soul 

To Him who gave had fled. 
The mother clasped the senseless form, 

And shrieked in wild despair, 
And kissed the icy lips and check. 

And touched the dewy hair. 
" No warmth — no life — my child, my child ! 

Oh for one parting word, 
One murmur of that lutelike voice, 

Though but an instant heard ! 
" She is not dead — she could not die — 

So young, so fair, so pure ; 
Spare me, in pity spare this blow ! 

All else I can endure. 
Take hope, take peace, this blighted head 

Strike with thy heaviest rod ; 
But leave me this, thy sweetest boon, 

Give back my child, God !" 



The suppliant ceased ; her tears were s: 

Hushed were those wailings loud ; 
A hallowed peace crept o'er her soul ; 

Her head to earth was bowed 
Low as her knee ; for as she knelt, 

About her, lo ! a flood 
Of soft, celestial lustre fell — 

A form beside her stood. 

And slowly then her awe-struck face 

And frighted eyes she raised ; 
Her heart leaped high : those clouded orbs 

Grew brighter as she gazed ; 
For oh ! they rested on a shape 

Majestic — yet so mild, 
Imperial dignity seemed blent 

With sweetness of a child. 

It spake not, but that saintlike smile 

Was full of mercy's light. 
And power and pity fi*om those eyes 

Looked forth in gentle might ; 
Those angel looks, that lofty mien, 

Have breathed without a word — 
" Trust, and thy faith shall win thee all : 

Behold, I am thy Lord !" 

He turns, and on that beauteous clay 

His godlike glances rest ; 
Commandingly the pallid brow 

His potent fingers pressed : 
The frozen current flows anew 

Beiieath that quickening hand ; 
The pale lips, softly panting, move ; 

She breathes at his command ! 

The spirit in its kindred realm 

Has heard its Master's call ; 
And back returning at that voice, 

Resumes its earthly thrall. 
And now from 'neath those snowy lids 

It shines with meeker light, 
As though 'twere chastened, purified, 

By even that transient flight. 

Loud swells the mother's cry of joy : 

To Him how passing sweet ! 
Her child she snatches to her breast, 

And sinks at Jesus' feet. 
" Glory to thee. Almighty God ! 

Who spared my hea^ this blow ; 
And glory to thine only Son — 

My Savior's hand. I know !" 



/ 



ANNA CORA MOWATT. 



269 



MY LIFE. 

Mt life is a fairy's gay dream, 

And thou art the genii, whose wand 
Tints all things around with the beam, 

The bloom of Titania's bright land. 
A wish to my lips never sprung, . 

A hope in mine eyes never shone, 
But, ere it was breathed by my tongue, 

To grant it thy footsteps have flown. 
Thy joys, they have ever been mine. 

Thy sorrows, too often thine own ; 
The sun that on me still would shine. 

O'er thee threw its shadows alone. 
Life's garland then let us divide. 

Its roses I'd fain see thee wear. 
For one — but I know thou wilt chide — 

Ah ! leave me its thorns, love, to bear ! 



LOVE. 



Thou conqueror's conqueror, mighty Love ! to thee 

Their crowns, their laurels, kings and heroes yield; 
Lo ! at thy shrine great Antony bows the knee. 

Disdains his victor wreath, and flies the field ! 
From woman's lips Alcides lists thy tone, 

And grasps the inglorious distal? for his sword. 
An eastern sceptre at thy feet is thrown, 

A nation's worshipped idol owns thee lord ; 
And well fair Nooijehan his throne became. 
When erst she ruled his empire in thy name. 

The sorcerer Jarchas could to age restore 

Youth's faded bloom or childhood's vanished glee ; 
Magician Love ! canst thou not yet do more 1 

Is not the faithful heart kept young by thee 1 
But ne'er that traitor-bosom formed to stray. 

Those perjured lips which twice thy vows have 
breathed, 
Can loiow the raptures of thy magic sway. 

Or find the balsam in thy garland wreathed ; 
Fancy or Folly may his breast have moved, 
But he who wanders never truly loved. 



TIME. 



Nat, rail not at Time, though a tyrant he be. 
And say not he cometh, colossal in might, 
Our beauty to ravish, put Pleasure to flight, [tree ; 

And pluck away friends, e'en as leaves from the 
A nd say not Love's torch, which like Vesta's should 

burn, 
The cold breath of Time soon to ashes will turn. 

You call Time a robber 1 Nay, he is not so : 
While Beauty's fair temple he rudely despoils. 
The mind to enrich with its plunder he toils ; 

And, sowed in his furrows, doth wisdom not grow 1 
The magnet mid stars points the north still to view; 
So Time 'mong our friends e'er discloses the true. 

Tho' cares then should gather, as pleasures flee by, 
Tho' Time from thy features the charm steal away. 
He'll dim too mine eye, lest it see them decay; 

And sorrows we've shared will knit closer love's tie: 
Then I 'II laugh at old Time, and at all he can do. 
For he 'U rob me in vain, if he leave me but you ! 



THY WILL BE DONE. 

Tht will be done ! heavenly King, 

I bow my head to thy decree ; 
Albeit my soul not yet may wing 

Its upward flight, great God, to thee ! 
Though I must still on earth abide. 

To toil, and groan, and suffer here, 
To seek for peace on sorrow's tide. 

And meet the world's unfeeling jeer. 
Wheif heaven seemed dawning on my view. 

And I rejoiced my race was run. 
Thy righteous hand the bliss withdrew; 

And still I say, " Thy will be done !" 
And though the world can never more 

A world of sunshine be to me, 
Though all my fairy drearas are o'er. 

And Care pursues where'er I flee ; 
Though friends I loved — the dearest — best. 

Were scattered by the storm away. 
And scarce a hand I warmly pressed 

As fondly presses mine to-day : 
Yet must I live — must live for those 

Who mourn the shadow on my brow. 
Who feel my hand can soothe their woes, 

Whose faithful hearts I gladden now. 
Yes, I will live — live to fulfil 

The noble mission scarce begun. 
And pressed with grief to murmur still. 

All Wise ! All Just ! " Thy will be done !" 

ON A LOCK OF MY MOTHER'S HAIR. 

Whose the eyes thou erst didst shade, 
Down what bosom hast thou rolled. 

O'er what cheek unchidden played. 
Tress of mingled brown and gold ! 

Round what brow, say, didst thou twine 1 

Angel-mother, it was thine I 

Cold the brow that wore this braid, 
Pale the cheek this bright lock pressed, 

Dim the eyes it loved to shade, 
Still the ever-gentle breast — 

All that bosom's struggles past. 

When it held this ringlet last. 

In that happy home above. 

Where all perfect joy hath birth, 
Thou dispensest good and love. 

Mother, as thou didst on earth. 
And though distant seems that sphere, 
Still I feel thee ever near. 
Though my longing eye now views 

Thy angelic mien no more. 
Still thy spirit can infuse 

Good in mine, unknown before. 
Still the voice, from childhood dear, 
Steals upon my raptured ear — 
Chiding every wayward deed, 

Fondly praising evei-y just. 
Whispering soft, when strength I need, 

" Loved one ! place in God thy trust !" 
Oh, 'tis more than joy to feel 
Thou art watching o'er my weal ! 



MARY NOEL MEIGS. 


The father of Miss Bleecker (now Mrs. 


of Washington. In 1834 Miss Bleecker was 


Meigs) was of the Bleecker family so long 


married to Mr. Pierre E. F. McDonald, who 


distinguished in the annals of New York, 


died at the end of ten years. In 1845 she 


and among her paternal connexions were 


published an octavo volume entitled Poems 


Mrs. Anne Eliza Bleecker and Mrs. Fau- 


by M. N. M., and she has since written many 


geres, whose poems have been commented 


poems and prose essays for the magazines. 


upon in an earlier part of this volume. Her 


besides several volumes of stories fur chil- 


maternal grandfather was the late Major Wil- 


dren, &c. In the autumn of 1848 she was 


liam Popham, the last survivor of the staff 


married to Mr. Henry Meigs, of New York. 


JUNE. 


And a thousand summer fancies with the melody 




have come ; 


Laughingly thou comest, 


And he turneth from the page 


Rosy Jnne, 


Of the prophet or the sage. 


With thy light and tripping feet, 


And forgetteth all the wisdom of his books ; 


And thy garlands fresh and sweet, 


For his heart is roving free 


•And thy waters all in tune ; 


With the butterfly and bee. 


With thy gift of buds and bells 


And chimeth with the music of the brooks, 


For the uplands and the dells. 


Singing still their merry tune 


With the wild-bird and the bee 


In the flashing light of noon, 


On the blossom or the tree, 


One chord of thy sweet lyre, laughing June ! 


And my heart leaps forth to meet thee. 


I have heart-aches many a one, 


With a joyous thrill to greet thee. 


Rosy June ! 


Rosy June ; 


And I sometimes long to fly 


And I love the flashing ray 


To a world of love and light, 


Of the rivulets at play, 


Where the flowerets never die. 


As they sparkle into day. 


Nor the day gives place to night; 


Rosy June ! 


Where the weariness and pain 


Most lovely do I call thee, 


Of this mortal life are o'er, 


Laughing June ! 


And we fondly clasp again 


For thy skies are bright and blue. 


All the loved ones gone before : 


As a sapphire's brilliant hue, 


And I think, to lay my head 


And the heats of summer noon. 


On some gi-een and sheltered bed. 


Made cooler by thy breath — 


Where, at dawning or at noon. 


O'er the clover-scented heath, 


Come the birds with liquid note 


Which the scythe must sweep so soon : 


In each tender, warbling throat. 


And thou fan'st the fevered cheek 


Or the breeze with mournful tune 


With thy softest gales of balm. 


To sigh above my grave — 


Till the pulse so low and weak 


Would be all that I should crave. 


Bcateth stronger and more calm. 


Rosy June ! 


Kind physician, thou dost lend 


But when thou art o'er the earth, 


Like a tried and faithful friend. 


With thy blue and tranquil skies. 


To the suffering and the weary every blessing thou 


And thy gushing melodies. 


canst bring; 


And thy many tones of mirth — 


By the sick man's couch of pain, 


When thy flowers perfume the air. 


Like an angel, once again 


And thy garlands wreathe the bough, 


Thou hast shed a gift of healmg from the perfume- 


And thy birthplace even now 


laden wing ; 


Seems an Eden bright and fair — 


And the student's listless ear. 


How my spirit shrinks, away 


As a dreamy sound and dear, 


From the darkness of the tomb, 


Hath caught a pleasant murmur of the insect's busy 


And I shudder at its gloom 


hum, 


While so beautiful the day. 


Where arching branches meet 


Yet I know the skies are tiright 


O'er the turf beneath his feet. 


In that land of love and light, 



MARY NOEL MEIGS. 



271 



Brighter, fairer than thine own, lovely June ! 

No shadow dims the ray, 

No night obscures the day, 
But ever, ever reigneth high eternal noon. 

A glimpse thou art of heaven, 

Lovely Jime ! 
Type of a purer clime 
Beyond the flight of time, 
Where the amaranth flowers are rife 
By the placid stream of life, 
For ever gently flowing ; 
Where the beauty of the rose 
In that land of soft repose 
Nor blight nor fading knows. 

In immortal fragrance blowing. 
And my prayer is still to see, 
In thy blessed ministry, 
A transient gleam of regions that are all divinely 
fair; 
A foretaste of the bliss 
In a holier world than this, 
And a place beside the loved ones who are safely 
gathered there. 



THE SPELLS OF MEMORY. 

It was but the note of a summer bird. 
But a dream of the past in my heart it stirred, 
And wafted me far to a breezy spot, 
Where blossomed the blue forget-me-not. 
And the broad, green boughs gave a checkered gleam 
To the dancing waves of a mountain-stream, 
And there, in the heat of a summer day, 
Again on the velvet turf I lay. 
And saw bright shapes in the floating clouds, 
And reared fair domes mid their fleecy shrouds, 
As I looked aloft to the azure sky. 
And longed for a bird's soft plumes to fly, 
Till lost in its depths of purity. 

Alas ! I have waked from that early dream : 
Far, far away is the mountain-stream; 
And the dewy turf, where so oft I lay, 
And the woodland flowers, they are far away ; 
And the skies that once were to me so blue, 
Now bend above with a darker hue : 
And yet I may wander in fancy back 
At Memory's call to my childhood's track, 
And the fount of thought hath been deeply stirred 
By the passing note of a summer bird. 

It was hut the rush of the autumn wind, 
But it left a spell of the past behind. 
And I was abroad with my brothers twain 
In the tangled paths of the wood again : 
Where the leaves were rustling beneath our feet. 
And the merry shout of our gleesome mood 
M^as echoed far in the solitude. 
As we caught the prize which a kindly breeze 
Sent down in a shower from the chestnut-trees. 

Oh ! a weary time hath passed away 
Since my brothers were out by my side at play ; 
A weary time, with its weight of care, 
And its toil in the city's crowded air, 
And its pining wish for the hilltops high ; 
For the laughing stream and the clear blue sky ; 



For the shaded dell, and the leafy halls 

Of the old green wood where the sunlight falls. 

But I see the haunts of my early days — 
The old green wood where the sunshine plays. 
And the flashing stream in its course of light. 
And the hilltops high, and the sky so bright. 
And the silent depths of the shaded dell. 
Where the twilight shadows at noonday fell : 
And the mighty charm which hath conquered these 
Is naught, save a rush of the autumn breeze. 

It was but a violet's faint perfume, 
But it bore me back to a quiet room. 
Where a gentle girl in the spring-time gay 
Was breathing her fair young life away, 
Whose light through the rose-hued curtains fell, 
And tinted her cheek like the ocean-shell ; 
And the southern breeze on its fragrant wings 
Stole in with its tale of all lovely things ; [hours. 
Where Love watched on through the long, long 
And Friendship came with its gift of flowers; 
And Death drew near with a stealthy tread. 
And lightly pillowed in dusl her head. 
And sealed up gently the lids so fair. 
And damped the brow with its clustering hair, 
And left the maiden in slumber deep, 
To waken no more from that tranquil sleep. 

Then we laid the flower her hand had pressed 
To wither and die on her gentle breast; 
And back to the shade of that quiet room 
I go with the violet's faint perfume. 



LOVE'S ASPIRATION. 

What shall I ask for thee. 
Beloved, when at the silent eve or golden morn 
I seek the Eternal Throne on bended knee. 
And to the God of Love my soul is borne. 

Ascending through the angel-guarded air, 
On the swift wings of Prayer ? 

What shall I ask 1 the bliss 
Of earth's poor votaries 1 pleasures that must fade 
As dew from summer blossom 1 Oh ! for this 
Thy fresh young spirit, dear one, was not made : 

Purer and holier must its blessings be — 
I ask not this for thee 

For thee, fair child, for thee. 
In thy fresh, budding girlhood, shall my prayer 
Go up unceasing, that the witchery 
Of earthly tones alluring may not snare 

Thy heart from purer things ; but God's own hand 
Lead to the better land. 

Ever shall Love for thee 
Implore Heaven's best and holiest benison. 
Its perfect peace — that peace which can not be 
The gift of Earth ; for this when upward borne 

My soul grows earnest, angel-lips of flame 
May echo thy sweet name. 

Ay, in their world of light 
Immortal voices catch a mother's prayer. 
And while I kneel, some waiting seraph bright. 
Swift on expanded wing, the boon may bear, 

And, soft as falling dewdrops, kindly shed 
Heaven's peace o'er thy young head. 



FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 



Frances Sargent Osgood is of a family 
of poets. Mrs. Anna Maria Wells, whose 
abilities are illustrated in another part of 
this volume, is the daughter of her mother ; 
Mrs. E. D. Harrington, the author of various 
graceful compositions, is her younger sister, 
and the late Mr. A. A. Locke, a brilliant and 
elegant writer in prose and verse, for many 
years connected with the public journals, 
was her brother. She is a native of Boston, 
where her father, Mr. Joseph Locke, was a 
merchant. Her earlier life, however, was 
passed principally in Hingham, a village of 
peculiar beauty, well calculated to arouse the 
dormant poetry of the soul ; and here, even 
in childhood, she became noted for her po- 
etical powers. In their exercise she was 
rather aided than discouraged by her parents, 
who were proud of the genius, and sympa- 
thized with all the aspirations of their child. 
The unusual merit of some of her first pro- 
ductions attracted the notice of P.Irs. Lydia 
M. Child, who was then editing a Juvenile 
Miscellany, and who foresaw the reputation 
which her young contributor has since ac- 
quired. Miss Locke, employing the nom de 
plume of " Florence," made it widely famil- 
iar by her numerous compositions for the 
Miscellany, as well as, subsequently, for other 
periodicals. 

In 1S34 she became acquaioted with Mr. 
S. S. Osgood, the pjiinter — a man of genius 
in his profession — whose life of various ad- 
venture is full of romantic interest ; and 
while, soon after, she was sitting for a por- 
trait, the artist told her his strange vicissi- 
tudes by sea and land ; how as a sailor-boy 
he climbed the dizzy main-top in the storm ; 
how in Europe he followed, with his palette, 
in the track of the flute-playing Goldsmith ; 
and among the 

Antres vast and deserts idle, 
Rough quarries, roclis, and hills whoseheads touch heaven, 

of South America, had found in pictures of the 
Crucifixion and of the liberator Bolivar — the 
rude productions of his untaught pencil — 
passports to the hearts of the peasant, the 
robber, and the partisan. She listened, like 



the fair Venetian : they were married, and 
soon after went to London, where Blr. Os- 
good had sometime before been a pupil of the 
Eoyal Academy. 

During this visit to the Great Metropolis, 
which lasted four years, Mr. Osgood was 
successful in his profession — painting por- 
traits of Lord Lyndhurst, the poet Campbell, 
Mrs. Norton, and many others — which se- 
cured for him an enviable reputation ; and 
Mrs. Osgood made herself known by her con- 
tributions to the magazines, by a miniature 
volume entitled The Casket of Fate, and by 
the collection of her poems published by 
Edward Churton, in 1839, under the title of 
A Wreath of Wild Flowers from New Eng- 
land. She was now twenty-three years of 
age, and this volume contained all her early 
compositions which then met the approval 
of her judgment. Among them are many 
pieces of grace and beauty, such as belong 
to joyous and hopeful girlhood, and one, of a 
more ambitious character, under the name 
of Elfrida — a dramatic poem, founded upon 
incidents in early English history — in which 
there are signs of more strength and tender- 
ness, and promise of greater achievements, 
though it is without the unity and proportion 
necessary to success in this kind of writing. 
Mr. and Mrs. Osgood returned to the Uni- 
ted States in 1843, and they have since resi- 
ded in New York, though occasionally ab- 
sent, as the pursuit of his profession or ill 
health has called Mr. Osgood to other parts 
of the country. Mrs. Osgood has been en- 
gaged in various literary occupations ; has 
edited, among other things, The Poetry of 
Flowers and Flowers of Poetry, (New York, 
1841,) and The Floral Offering, (Philadel- 
phia, 1847,) two richly embellished souve- 
nirs; has published a collection of her po- 
ems, (New York, 1846,) and has been one 
of the most constant and popular contribu- 
tors to the literary magazines. She has done 
much ia prose; but all her compositions of 
this class are instinct with the poetical spirit. 
She is at times forcible and original, and is 
frequently picturesque ; but throughout all 

272 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



273 



appears the poet, and the affectionate and 
enthusiastic woman. Of none of our wri- 
ters has the excellence been more steadily 
progressive. Every month her powers have 
seemed to expand and her sympathies to 
deepen. With an ear delicately susceptible 
to the harmonies of language, and a light 
and pleasing fancy, she always wrote musi- 
cally and often with elegance ; but her later 



poems are marked by a freedom of style, a 
tenderness of feeling, and a wisdom of ap- 
prehension, and are informed with a grace, so 
undefinable, but so pervading and attractive, 
that the consideration to which she is enti- 
tled is altogether different in kind, as well as 
in degree, from that which was awarded to 
the playful, piquant, and capricious imprc- 
visatrice of former years. 



A FAREWELL TO A HAPPY DAY. 

GooD-BT, good-by, thou gracious, golden day : 
Through luminous tears thou smilest, far away 
In the blue heaven, thy sweet farewell to me. 
And I, through my tears, gaze and smile with thee. 
I see the last faint, glowing amber gleam 
Of thy rich pinion, like a lovely dream, 
Whose floating glory melts within the sky. 
And now thou 'rt passed for ever from mine eye ! 
Were we not friends — best friends — my cherished 
Did I not treasure every eloquent ray [day 1 

Of golden light and love thou gavest me ? 
And have I not been true — most true to thee 1 
And thou — thou earnest Uke a joyous bird. 
Whose sacred wings by heaven's own air were 
And lowly sang me all the happy time [stirred. 
Dear, soothing stories of that blissful clime ! 
And more, oh ! more than this, there came with thee, 
From Heaven, a stranger, rare and bright to me — 
A new, sweet joy — a smiling angel-guest. 
That softly asked a home within my breast 
For talking sadly with my soul alone, 
I heard far off and faint a music-tone : 
It seemed a spirit's call — so soft it stole 
On faiiy wings into my waiting soul. 
I knew it summoned me to something sweet. 
And so I followed it with faltering feet — 
And found — what I had prayed for with wild tears — 
A rest, that soothed the lingering grief of years ! 
So for that deep, perpetual joy, my day ! 
And for all lovely things that came to play 
In thy glad smile — the pure and pleading flowers 
That crowned with their frail bloom thy flying hours : 
The sunUt clouds — the pleasant air that played 
Its low lute-music mid the leaiy shade — ■ 
And, dearer far, the tenderness that taught 
My soul a new and richer thrill of thought : 
For these — for all — bear thou to Heaven for me 
The grateful thanks with which I mission thee ! 
Then should thy sisters, wasted, wronged, upbraid : 
Speak thou for me — for thou wert not betrayed ! 
'T was little, true, I could to thee impart — 
I, with my simple, frail, and wayward heart; 
But that I strove the diamond sands to light, 
In Life's rich hour-glass, with Love's rainbow flight : 
And that one generous spirit owed to me 
A moment of exulting ecstasy ; 
And that I won o'er wrong a queenly sway — 
For this, thou 'It smile for me in Heaven, my Day ! 



HAD WE BUT MET. 

Had we but met in life's delicious spring. 

Ere UTong and falsehood taught me doubt and fear, 
Ere hope came back with worn and wounded wing, 

To die upon the heart she could not cheer : 
Ere I love's precious pearl had vainly lavished. 

Pledging an idol deaf to my despair — 
Ere one by one the buds and blooms were ravished 

From life's rich garland by the clasp of care. 
Ah, had we then but met ! I dare not Hsten 

To the wild whispers of my fancy now ! 
My full heart beats — my sad, drooped lashes glisten : 

I hear the music of thy boyhood's vow ! 
I see thy dark eyes lustrous with love's meaning, 

I feel thy dear hand softly clasp my own ; 
Thy noble form is fondly o'er me leaning — 

It is too much — but ah ! the dream has flown ! 
How had I poured this passionate heart's devotion 

In voiceless rapture on thy manly breast ; 
How had I hushed each sorrowful emotion. 

Lulled by thy love to sweet, untroubled rest ! 
How had I knelt hour after hour beside thee. 

When from thy lips the rare, scholastic lore 
Fell on the soul that all but deified thee, 

While at each pause, I, childlike, prayed for more I 
How had I watched the shadow of each feeling 

That moved thy soul, glance o'er that radiant face, 
" Taming my wild heart" to that dear revealing, 

And glorying in thy genius and thy grace : 
Then hadst thou loved me with a love abiding, 

And I had now been less unworthy thee ; 
For I was generous, giuleless, and confiding — 

A frank enthusiast — buoyant, fresh, and fVee. 
But now, my loftiest aspirations perished, 

My holiest hopes — a jest for lips profane — 
The tenderest yearnings of my soul uncherished— 

A soul-worn slave in Custom's hon chain : 
Checked by those ties that make my Ughtest sigh, 

My faintest blush, at thought of thee, a crime : 
How must I still my heart, and school my eye. 

And count m vain the slow, dull steps of Time ! 
Wilt thou come back ? Ah ! what avails to ask thee, 

Since Honor, Faith, forbid thee to return 1 
Yet to forgetfulness I dare not task thee. 

Lest thou too soon tliat easy lesson Icai'n ! 
Ah,come not back, love ! even through memory's ear 

Thy tone's melodious murmur thrills my heart; 
Come not with that fond smile, so frank, so dear — 

While yet we may, let us for ever part ! 



274 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



TO THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 

Le ATE me not yet ! Leave me not cold and lonely, 

Thou dear ideal of my pining heart ! 
Thou art the friend — the beautiful — the only, 

Whom I would keep, though all the world depart. 
Thou, that dost veil the frailest flower with glory. 

Spirit of light, and lovehness, and truth ! 
Thou that didst tell me a sweet, fairy story. 

Of the dim future, in my wistful youth ; 
Thou, who canst weave a halo round the spirit, 

Through which naught mean or evil dare intrude, 
Eesume not yet the gift, which I inherit 

From Heaven and thee, that dearest, holiest good ! 
Leave me not now ! Leave me not cold and lonely. 

Thou starry prophet of my pining heart ! 
Thou art the friend — the tenderest — the only. 

With whom, of all, 'twould be despair to part. 
Thou that cam'st to me in my dreaming childhood, 

Shaping the changeful clouds to pageants rare, 
Peopling the smiling vale and shaded wildwood 

With airy beings, faint yet sti-angely fair ; 
Telling me all the seaborn breeze was saying. 

While it went whispering thro' the willing leaves. 
Bidding me listen to the light rain playing 

Its pleasant tune about the household eaves ; 
Tuning the low, sweet ripple of the river, 

Till its melodious murmur seemed a song, 
A tender and sad chant, repeated ever, 

A sweet, impassioned plaint of love and wrong — ■ 
Leave me not yet ! Leave me not cold and lonely. 

Thou star of promise o'er my clouded path ! 
Leave not the life that borrows from thee only 

All of delight and beauty that it hath. 

Thou, that when others knew not how to love me. 

Nor cared to fathom half my yearning soul. 
Didst wreathe thy flowers of light around, above me. 

To woo and win me from my giief 's control : 
By all my dreams, the passionate and holy. 

When thou hast sung love's lullaby to me, 
By all the childlike worship, fond and lowly. 

Which I have lavished upon thine and thee ; 
By all the lays my simple lute was learning. 

To echo from thy voice, stay with me still ! 
Once flown — alasl^for thee there's noreturnmg: 

The charm will die o'er valley, wood, and hill. 
Tell me not Time, whose wing my hrow has shaded. 

Has wither'd spring'ssweet bloom withinmy heart: 
Ah, no ! the rose of love is yet unfaded. 

Though hope and joy. its sister flowers, depart. 

Well do I know that I have wronged thine altar 

With the light oflferings of an idler's mind. 
And thus, with shame, my pleading prayer I falter. 

Leave me not, spirit ! deaf, and dumb, and blind : 
Deaf to the mystic harmony of Nature, 

Blind to the beauty of her stars and flowers ; 
Leave me not, heavenly yet human teacher. 

Lonely and lost in this cold world of ours. 
Heaven knows I need thy music and thy beauty 

Still to beguile me on my weary way. 
To lighten to my soul the cares of duty. 

And bless with radiant dreams the darkened day : 
To charm my wild heart in the worldly revel. 

Lest I, too, join the aimless, false, and vain ; 



Let me not lower to the soulless level 
Of those whom now I pity and disdain. 

Leave me not yet — leave me not cold and pining, 
Thou bird of paradise, whose plumes of light, 

Where'er they rested, left a glory shining ; 
Fly not to heaven, or let me share thy flight. 



REFLECTIONS. 

Ask why the holy starlight, or the blush 
Of summer blossoms, or the balm that floats 
From yonder lily like an angel's breath. 
Is lavished on such men ! God gives them all 
For some high end ; and thus the seeming waste 
Of her rich soul — its starlight purity. 
Its every feeling delicate as a flower. 
Its tender trust, its generous confidence, 
Its wondering disdain of littleness — 
These, by the coarser sense of those around her 
Uncomprehended, may not all be vain : 
But win them — they unwitting of the spell — 
By ties unfelt, to nobler, loftier life. 
And they dare blame her ! they whose every thought, 
Look, utterance, act, has more of evil in't. 
Than e'er she dreamed of or could understand ; 
And she must blush before them, with a heart 
Whose lightest throb is worth their all of life ! 
They boast their chanty : oh, idle boast ! 
They give the poor, forsooth, food, fuel, shelter ; 
Faint, chill'd, and worn, ^ersoi/Zimplored a pittance, 
Her soul asked alms of theirs and was denied ! 

It was not much it came a-begging for, 
A simple boon, only a gentle thought, 
A kindly judgment of such deeds of hers 
As passed their understanding, but to her 
Seemed natural as the blooming of a flower : 
For God taught her — but they had learned of men 
Their meagre task of how to mete out love, 
A selfish, sensual love, most unlike hers. 
God taught the tendril where to cling, and she 
Learned the same lovely lesson, with the same 
Unquestioning and pliant trust in Him. 

And yet that He should let a lyre of heaven 
Be played on by such hands, with touch so rude,' 
Might wake a doubt in less than perfect faith, 
Perfect as mine, in his beneficence. 



LENORE. 

Oh ! fragile and fair, as the delicate chalices, 
Wrought with so rare and subtle a skill. 

Bright relics, that tell of the pomp of those palaces, 
Venice — the sea-goddess — glories in still. 

Whose exquisite texture, transparent and tender, 
A pure blush alone fi-om the ruby wine takes ; 

Yet ah ! if some false hand, profaning its splendor. 
Dares but to taint it with poison — it breaks ! 

So when Love poured through thy pure heart his 
lightning, 

On thy pale cheek the soft rose-hues awoke — 
So when wild Passion, that timid heart frightening. 

Poisoned the treasure — it trembled and broke ! 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



275 



THE COCOA-NUT TREE. 

Oh, the green and the graceful — the cocoa-nut tree ! 
The lone and the lofty — it loves like me 
The flash, the foam of the heaving sea, 
And the sound of the surging waves 
In the shore's unfathomed caves : 
With its stately shaft, and its verdant crown, 
And its fruit in clusters drooping down — 
Some of a soft and tender green, 
And some all ripe and brown between, 
And flowers, too, blending their lovelier grace 
Like a blush through the tresses on Beauty's face. 
Oh, the lovely, the free, 
The cocoa-nut tree. 
Is the tree of all trees for me ! 

The willow, it waves with a tenderer motion, 
The oak and the elm with more majesty rise ; 

But give me the cocoa, that loves the wild ocean, 
And shadows the hut where the island-girl lies. 

In the Nicobar islands, each cottage you see, 
Is built of the trunk of the cocoa-nut tree. 
While its leaves matted thickly, and many times o'er, 
Make a thatch for its roof and a mat for its floor; 
Its shells the dark islander's beverage hold — 
'Tis a goblet as pure as a goblet of gold. 

Oh, the cocoa-nut tree, 

That blooms by the sea. 
Is the tree of all trees for me ! 

In the Nicohar isles of the cocoa-nut tree. 
They build the light shallop — the wild, the tree ; 
They weave of its fibres so firm a sail, 
It will weather the rudest southern gale ; 
They fill it with oil, and with coarse jaggree — 
With arrack and coir, from the cocoa-nut tree. 

The lone, the free. 

That dwells in the roar 

Of the echoing shore — 
Oh, the cocoa-nut tree for me ! 
Rich is the cocoa-nut's milk and meat. 
And its wine, the pure palm-wine, is sweet ; 
It is like the bright spirits we sometimes meet — 

The wine of the cocoa-nut tree : 
For they tie up the embryo bud's soft wing, 
Kom which the blossoms and nuts would spring; 
And thus forbidden to bless with bloom 
Its native air, and with soft perfume, 
The subtle spirit that struggles there 
Distils an essence more rich and rare. 
And instead of a blossom and truitage birth, 
The delicate palm-wine oozes forth. 

Ah, thus to the child of genius, too, 

The rose of beauty is oft denied ; 
But all the richer, that high heart, through 

The torrent of feeling pours its tide, 
And purer and fonder, and far more true, 
Is that passionate soul in its lonely pride. 
Oh, the fresh, the free, 
The cocoa-nut tree. 
Is the tree of all trees for me J 
The glowing sky of the Indian isles, 
Lovingly over the cocoa-nut smiles. 
And the Indian maiden lies below. 
Where its leaves their graceful shadow throw : 



She weaves a wreath of the rosy shells 

That gem the beach where the cocoa dwells ; 

She binds them into her long black hair. 

And they blush in the braids like rosebuds there ; 

Her soft brown arm, and her graceful neck. 

With those ocean-blooms she joys to deck. 

Oh, wherever you see 

The cocoa-nut tree. 
There will a picture of beauty be ! 



A MOTHER'S PRAYER IN ILLNESS. 

Yes, take them first, my Father ! Let my doves 
Fold their white wings in heaven, safe on thy breast. 
Ere I am called away : I dare not leave [hearts ! 
Their young hearts here, their innocent, thoughtless 
Ah, how the shadowy train of future ills 
Comes sweeping down life's vista as I gaze ! 

My May ! my careless, ardent-tempered May — 
My frank and frolic child, in whose blue eyes 
Wild joy and passionate wo alternate rise ; 
Whose cheek the morning in her soul illumes ; 
Whose little, lo™g heart a word, a glance. 
Can sway to grief or glee ; who leaves her play. 
And puts up her sweet mouth and dimpled arms 
Each moment for a kiss, and softly asks. 
With her clear, flutelike voice, " Do you love me V* 
Ah, let me stay ! ah, let me still be by, 
To answer her and meet her warm caress ! 
For I away, how oft in this rough world 
That earnest question will be asked in vain ! 
How oft that eager, passionate, petted heart. 
Will shrink abashed and chilled, to learn at length 
The hateful, withering lesson of distrust ! 
Ah ! let her nestle still upon this breast, 
In which each shade that dims her darling face 
Is felt and answered, as the lake reflects 
The clouds that cross yon smiling heaven ! and tliou, 
My modest Ellen — tender, thoughtful, true ; 
Thy soul attuned to all sweet harmonies : 
My pure, proud, noble Ellen ! with thy gifts 
Of genius, grace, and loveliness, half hidden 
'Neath the soft veil of innate modesty. 
How will the world's wild discord reach thy heart 
To startle and appal ! Thy generous scorn 
Of all things base and mean — thy quick, keen taste, 
Dainty and delicate — thy instinctive fear 
Of those unworthy of a soul so pure. 
Thy rare, unchildlike dignity of mien. 
All — they will all bring pain to thee, my child ! 
And oh, if even their grace and goodness meet 
Cold looks and careless greetings, how will all 
The latent evil yet undisciplined 
In their young, timid souls, forgiveness find 1 
Forgiveness, and forbearance, and soft chidings. 
Which I, their mother, learned of Love to give ! 
Ah, let me stay ! — albeit my heart is weary. 
Weary and worn, tired of its own sad beat. 
That finds no echo in this busy world 
Which can not pause to answer — tired alike 
Of joy and sorrow, of the day and night : 
Ah, take them first, my Falher, and then me ! 
And fortheirsakes.forthoirsvvectsakes, my Father, 
Let me find rest beside them, at thy feet ! 



276 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



LITTLE CHILDREN. 

"of Buch 13 the kingdom of heaven." 

Ajtd yet we check and chide 
The airy angels as they float about us, 
With rules of so-called wisdom, till they grow 
The same tame slaves to custom and the world. 
And day by day the fresh frank soul that looked 
Out of those wistful eyes, and smiling played 
With the wild roses of that changing cheek, 
And modulated all those earnest tones, 
And danced in those light foot-falls to a tune 
Heart-heard by them, inaudible to us. 
Folds closer its pure wings, whereon the hues 
They caught in heaven already pale and pine. 
And shrinks amazed and scared back from our gaze. 
And so the evil grows. The graceful flower 
May have its own sweet way in bud and bloom — 
May drink, and dare with upturned gaze the hght, 
Or nestle 'neath the guardian leaf, or wave 
Its fragrant bells to every roving breeze , 
Or wreathe with blushing grace the fragile spray 
In bashful loveliness. The wild wood-bird 
May plume at will his wings, and soar or sing ; 
The mountain brook may wind where'er it would, 
Dash in wild music down the deep ravine, 
Or, rippling drowsily in forest haunts, 
Dream of the floating cloud, the waving flower, 
And murmur to itself sweet lulling words 
In broken tones so like the faltering speech 
Of early childhood : but our human flowers, 
Our soul-birds, caged and pining — they must sing 
And grow, not as their own but our caprice 
Suggests, and so the blossom and the lay 
Are but half bloom and music at the best. 
And if by chance some brave and buoyant soul, 
More bold or less forgetful of the lessons 
God taught them first, disdain the rule — the bar — 
And, wildly beautiful, rebellious rise. 
How the hard world, half startled from itself. 
Frowns the bright wanderer down, or turns away, 
And leaves her lonely in her upward path. 
Thank God ! to such his smile is not denied. 



A SERMON. 

Thou discord in this choral harmony ! 
That dost profane the loveliest light and air 
God ever gave : be still, and look, and listen ! 
Canst see yon fair cloud floating in the sun, 
And blush not, watching its serener life T 
Canst hear the fragrant grass grow up toward God, 
With low, perpetual chant of praise and prayer. 
Nor grieve that your soul grows the other way 1 
Forego that tone, made harsh by a hard heart, 
And hearken, if you 're not afraid to hearken. 
Yon robin's careless carol, glad and sweet. 
Mocking the sunshine with his merry trill : 
Suppose you try to chord your voice with his — • 
But first, learn love and wisdom of him, lady ! 

How dare you bring your inharmonious heart 
To such a scene 1 How dare you let your voice 
Talk out of tune so with the voice of God 
In earth and sky 1 The balmy air about you 



Is Heaven's great gift, vouchsafed to you to make 
Vocal with all melodious truths, and you 
Fret it with false words, from a falser soul. 
And poison it with the breath of calumny ! 
Learn reverence, bold one, for true Nature's heart, 
If not for that your sister woman bears ! 
For Nature's heart, pleading in every wave, 
That wastes its wistful music at your feet. 

Take back your cold, inane, and carping mind 
Into the world you came from and belong to — 
The world of common cares and sordid aims : 
These happy haunts can spare you, httle one ! 
The dew-fed grass will grow as well without you, 
The woodland choirs will scarce require your voice, 
The starlit wave without your smile will glisten, 
The proud patrician trees will miss you not. 

Go, waste God's glorious boon of summer hours 
Among your mates, as shallow, in small talk 
Of dress, or weather, or the last elopement ! 
Go, mar the canvass with distorted face 
Of dog or cat ; or worse, profanely mock, 
With gaudy beads, the pure light-painted flower ! 
Go, trim your cap, embroider your visite, 
Crocher a purse, do any petty thing : 
But, in the name of truth, religion, beauty, 
Let Nature's marvellous mystery alone, 
Nor ask such airs, such skies, to waste the wealth 
They keep for nobler beings, upon you ! 
Or stay, and learn of every bird and bloom, 
That sends its heart to Heaven in song or sigh, 
The lesson that you need — the law of love ! 



THE CHILD PLAYING WITH A WATCH. 

Art thou playing with Time in thy sweet baby- 
glee 1 
Will he pause on his pinions to frolic with thee 1 
Oh, show him those shadowless, innocent eyes. 
That smile of bewildered and beaming surprise ; 
Let him look on that cheek where thy rich hair 

reposes. 
Where dimples are playing " bopeep" with the roses: 
His wrinkled brow press with light kisses and warm, 
And clasp his rough neck with thy soft wreathing 

arm. 
Perhaps thy bewitching and infantine sweetness 
May win him, for once, to delay in his fleetness — 
To pause, ere he rifle, relentless in flight, 
A blossom so glowing of bloom and of light : 
Then, then would I keep thee, my beautiful child, 
With thy blue eyes unshadowed, thy blush unde- 

filed— 
With thy innocence only to guard thee from ill, 
In life's sunny dawning, a lily-bud still ! 
Laugh on, my own Ellen ! that voice, which to me 
Gives a warning so solemn, makes music for thee ; 
And while I at those sounds feel the idler's annoy, 
Thou hear'st but the tick of the pretty gold toy ; 
Thou seest but a smile on the brow of the churl — 
May his frown never awe thee, my own baby-girl. 
And oh, may his step, as he wanders with thee. 
Light and soft as thine own little fairy tread be ! 
While still in all seasons, in storms and fair weather, 
May Time and my Ellen be playmates together. 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



277 



LABOR. 

Pause not to dream of the future before us: 
Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us ; 
Hark, how Creation's deep, musical chorus, 

Unintermitting, goes up into Heaven^ 
Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing ; 
Never the little seed stops in its growing; 
More and more richly the Roseheart keeps glowing, 

Till from its nourisliing stem it is riven. 

" Labor is worship !" — the robin is singing : 
" Labor is worship !" — the wild bee is ringing : 
Listen ! that eloquent whisper upspringing 

Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart. 
From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower ; 
From the rough sod blows the soft breathing flower ; 
From the small insect, the rich coral bower ; 

Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part. 

Labor is life ! — 'T is the still water faileth ; 

Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; 

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth ! 

Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. 
Labor is glory ! — the flying cloud lightens ; 
Only the waving wing changes and brightens ; 
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens : [tune ! 

Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in 

Labor is rest — from the sorrows that greet us ; 
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, 
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us, 

Rest fi-om world-syrens that lure us to ill. 
Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow ; 
Work — thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow; 
Lie not down wearied 'neath Wo's weeping willow ! 

Work with a stout heart and resolute will ! 

Labor is health — Lo ! the husbandman reaping. 
How through his veins goes the life-current leaping ! 
How his strong arm in its stalwart pride sweeping, 

T rae as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides. 
Labor is wealth — in the sea the pearl groweth ; 
Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ; 
From the fine acorn the strong forest blowcth ; 

Temple and statue the marble block hides. 

Droop not tho'shame,sin andanguish are round thee! 
Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee ! 
Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee : 

Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod ! 
Work — for some good, be it ever so slowly ; 
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly : 
liabor ! — all labor is noble and holy ; 

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God. 



GARDEN GOSSIP, 

ACCOUNTING FOR THE COOLNESS BETWEEN THE 
LILY AND VIOLET. 

" I WILL tell you a secret," the honeybee said, 
To a violet drooping her dew-laden head ; 
" The lily 's in love ! for she listened last night, 
While her sisters all slept in the holy moonlight. 
To a zephyr that just had been rocking the rose, 
Where, hidden, I hearkened in seeming repose. 



'' I would not betray her to any but you ; 
But the secret is safe with a spirit so true — 
It will rest in your bosom in silence profound." 
The violet bent her blue eye to the ground : 
A tear and a smile in her loving look lay, 
While the lights winged gossip went whirring away. 

" I will tell you a secret," the honeybee said, 
And the young lily lifted her beautiful head 
" The violet thinks, with her timid blue eye, 
To pass for a blossom enchantingly shy ; 
But for all her sweet manners, so modest and pure. 
She gossips with every gay bird that sings to her. 

" Now let me advise you, sweet flower, as a friend, 
Oh, ne'er to such beings your confidence lend ; 
It grieves me to see one, all guileless like you, 
Thus wronging a spirit so trustful and true : 
But not for the world, love, my secret betray !" 
And the little light gossip went buzzing away. 

A blush in the lily's cheek trembled and fled : 
"I'm sorry he told me," she tenderly said ; 
' If I mayn't trust the violet, pure as she seems, 
I must fold in my own heart my beautiful dreams." 
Was the mischief well managed 1 fair lady is't truel 
Did the light garden gossip take lessons of you ! 



TO A FRIEND. 

Oh, no ! never deem her less worthy of love. 
That once she has trusted, and trusted in vain ! 

Could you turn from the timid and innocent dove. 
If it flew to your breast from a savage's chain \ 

She, too, is a dove, in her guileless aiFection, 
A child in confiding and worshipping truth ; 

Half broken in heart, she has flown for protection 
To you : will you chill the sweet promise of youth % 

To a being so fi'agile, aflfection is life : 
A rosebud, unblessed by a smile from above. 

When with bloom and with fragrance its bosom is 
rife — 
A bee without sweets — she must perish or love ! 

You have heard of those magical circles of flowers. 
Which in places laid waste by the lightning are 
found ; 
Where they say that the fairies have charmed the 
night hours, 
With their luminous footsteps enriching the 
ground. 

Believe me — the passion she cherished of yore. 
That brought, like the storm-flash, at once on its 
wing 

Destruction and splendor, like that hurried o'er, 
And left in its track but the wild fairy-ring — 

All rife with fair blossoms of fancy, and feeling, 
And hope, that spring forth fi'om the desolate 
gloom. 
And whose breath in rich incense is softly up- 
stealing. 
To brighten your pathway with beauty and bloom. 



278 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



EUilYDICE. 

With heart that thrilled to every earnest line, 
I had been reading o'er that antique story, 

Wherein the youth half human, half divine, 
Of all love-lore the Eidolon and glory. 

Child of the Sun, with Music's pleading spell, 
In Pluto's palace swept, for love, his golden shell ! 

And in the wild, sweet legend, dimly traced. 
My own heart's history unfolded seemed : 

Ah, lost one ! by thy lover-minstrel graced 
With homage pure as ever woman dreamed, 

Too fondly worshipped, since such fate befell. 
Was it not sweet to die — because beloved too welll 

The scene is round me. — Throned amid the gloom, 

As a flower smiles on Etna's fatal breast. 
Young Proserpine beside her lord doth bloom ; 

And near — of Orpheus' soul, oh, idol blest ! — 
While low for thee he tunes his lyre of light, 
I see thy meek, fair form dawn tlirough that lurid 
night ! 

I see the glorious boy — his dark locks wreathing 

Wildly the wan and spiritual brow ; 
His sweet, curved lip the soul of music breathing ; 
His blue Greek eyes, that speak Love's loyal vow ; 
I see him bend on thee that eloquent glance, 
The while those wondrous notes the realm of terror 
trance. 

I see his face, with more than mortal beauty 
Kindling, as, armed with that sweet lyre alone. 

Pledged to a holy and heroic duty, 
He stands serene before the awful throne. 

And looks on Hades' hon*ors with clear eyes, 
Since thou, his own adored Eurydice, art nigh ! 

Now soft and low a prelude sweet uprings, 
As if a prisoned angel — pleading there 

For hfe and love — were fettered 'neath the strings. 
And poured his passionate soul upon the air ! 

Anon it clangs with wild, exultant swell. 
Till the full paean peals triumphantly through hell ! 

And thou, thy palehands meekly lock'd before thee, 
Thy sad ej'es drinking life fi'om his dear gaze — 

Thy lips apart — thy hair a halo o'er thee, 
Trailing ai'ound tlijr tliroat its golden maze — 

Thus, with all words in passionate silence dying. 
Within thy soul I hear Love's eager voice replying : 

" Play on, mine Orpheus ! Lo ! while these are 
gazing. 
Charmed into statues by thy God-taught strain, 
I — I alone, to thy dear face upraising 

My tearful glance, the life of life regain ; 
For every tone that steals into ray heart 
Doth to its worn, weak pulse a mighty power impart. 

Play on, mine Orpheus ! while thy music floats 
Through the dread realm, divine with truth and 
grace. 
See, dear one, how the chain of linked notes 

Has fettered every spirit in its place ! 
Even Death, beside me, still and helpless hes ; 
And strives in vain to chill my frame with his cold 
eyes. 



Still, mine own Oi'pheus, sweep the golden lyre : 

Ah ! dost thou mark how gentle Proserpine, 

With clasped hands, and eyes whose azure fire 

Gleams through quick tears, thrilled by thy lay, 

doth lean 

Her graceful head upon her stem lord's breast, 

Like an o'erwearied child, whom music lulls to rest 1 

Play, my proud minstrel ; strike the chords again ; 

Lo ! victory crowns at last thy heavenly skill : 
For Pluto turns relenting to the sti^in — 

He waves his hand — ^he speaks his awful will ; 
My glorious Greek, lead on ; but ah ! still lend 
Thy soul to thy sweet lyre, lest yet thou lose thy 
friend. 

Think not of me : think rather of the time, 

When moved by thy resistless melody, 
To the strange magic of a song sublime, 
Thy argo grandly glided to the sea ; 
And in the majesty Minerva gave. 
The graceful galley swept with joy the sounding 
wave. 

Or see, in Fancy's dream, thy Thracian trees, 

Their proud heads bent submissive to the sound. 
Swayed by a tuneful and enchanted breeze, 
March to slow music o'er th' astonished ground — 
Grove after grove descending irom the hills. 
While round thee weave their dance the glad, har- 
monious rills. 

Think not of me. Ha ! by thy mighty sire, 
My lord, my king, recall the dread behest ; 
Turn not — ah ! turn not back those eyes of fire. 

Oh, lost, for ever lost — undone — unblest — 
I faint, I die I the serpent's fang once more 
Is here ! Nay, grieve not thus : life but not love 
is o'er. 



LADY JANE. 

Oa ! saw ye e'er creature so queenly, so fine, 
As this dainty, aerial darling of mine ; 
With a toss of her mane that is glossy as jet, 
With a dance and a prance, and a sportive curvet, 
She is oft" — she is stepping superbly away. 
Her dark, speaking eyes full of pride and of play. 
Oh ! she spurns the dull earth with a graceful disdain. 
My fearless, my peerless, my loved Lady Jane. 

Her silken ears lifted when danger is nigh. 
How kindles the night in her resolute eye ; 
Now stately she paces, as if to the sound 
Of a proud, martial melody pealing around — 
Now pauses at once, mid a light caracole. 
To turn on her master a look full of soul — 
Now, fleet as a fairy, she speeds o'er the plain, 
My dashing, my darling, my own Lady Jane. 

Give her rein — let her go ! like a shaft from the bow, 
Like a bird on the whig she is glancing, I trow. 
Light of heart, lithe of limb, with a spirit all fire. 
Yet swayed and subdued to my idlest desire ; 
Though daring, yet docile — and sportive, but true. 
Her nature's the noblest that ever I knew : 
Oh ! she scorns the dull earth, in her joyous disdain, 
My beauty, my glory, my gay Lady Jane ! 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



279 



IDA'S FAREWELL. 

" We part for ever !" Silent be our parting ; 

Let not a word its sacred grief profane ! 
Heart pressed to heart, witli not a tear upstarting — 

An age of anguish in that moment's pain ! 

'T is j ust and right. It is our " crown of sorrow ;" 
Bravely we'll meet it as becomes our love — 

A love so strong, so pure, it well may borrow 
Bright wmgs to waft it to the joy above. 

We part for ever ! — o'er my soul in sadness 
No more the music of thy voice shall glide 

Low with deep feeling, till a passionate gladness 
Thrilled to each tone, and in wild tears replied. 

No more thy light caressmg touch shall calm me, 
With its dear magic on my lifted brow ; 

No more thy pen of fire shall pour to charm me, 
The poet-passion of thy fervent vow ! 

We part for ever ! Proud shall be the story 
Of hearts that hid affection fond as ours — 

The joy that veiled the universe in glory 
Fades with thy presence from her skies and flowers. 

The soul that answered, like the sun-touched lyre, 
To thy dear smile — to every tone of thine. 

Henceforth is hushed, with all its faith — its fire, 
Till thou rewaken it in realms divine ! 

We part for ever ! Ah, this world's for ever — 
What is its fleetness unto hearts so strong ? 

Here iji our worldless agony we sever ; 
There we shall meet where love will be no wrong. 

"In paradise !" Dost thou e'er dream as I, love, 
Of that sweet Ufa when all the truth — the grace — 

All the soft melodies, in our souls that sigh, love. 
Shall make the hght and beauty of the place 1 

We meet for ever I Tenderly lamenting 
The wild dear weakness of our earthly day, 

Beneath the passionate tears of that repenting. 
What luminous flowers shall spring to bless OVU' 
way ! 

And for all tuneful tones our love revealing. 
Some bird or rill shall wake in sweet reply ; 

And every sigh of pity or of feeling 
Shall call a cloud of rose-light irom the sky. 

To thy rare, gorgeous fantasies responding, 
Rich palaces, mid wondrous scenes shall rise ; 

To thy proud harp's impassioned tones resounding, 
The minstrel wind shall play its wild replies. 

Visions of unimagined grace and splendor. 
For ever changing round thy rapturous way, [der. 

Now beauteous sculpture bathed in moonlight ten- 
Now radiant paintings to thy wish shall play. 

But I will speak a fair bower into being. 

With tender, timid, wistful words and low, 
And tune my soul — until, with Heaven agreeing. 

It chords with music to which blossoms grow. 
And they — the flowers, and I will pray together, 

While thou, for" Love's sweet sake, shall join the 
prayer, 
Till all sweet influences of balmy weather 

And lovely scenery make us good and fair. 



And ever to our purer aspirations, 

A lovelier light and bloom the flowers shall take; 
With rarer grace shall glow our soul's creations, 

With mellower music every echo wake. 

" We meet in paradise !" To hallowed duty, 

Here with a loyal and heroic heart, 
Bind we our lives — that so divinest beauty [part. 

May bless that heaven, where naught our souls can 



TO A DEAR LITTLE TRUANT, 

"WHO WOULDN'T COME HOME. 

When are you coming? the flowers have come; 
Bees in the balmy air happily hum ; 
In the dim woods where the cool mosses are. 
Gleams the anemone's little, light star ; 
Tenderly, timidly, down in the dell. 
Sighs the sweet violet, droops the harebell ; 
Soft; in the wavy grass lightens the dew ; 
Spring keeps her promises: why do not youl 

Up in the blue air the clouds are at play — 
You are more graceful and lovely than they ; 
Birds in the branches sing all the day long. 
When are you coming to join in their song 1 
Fairer than flowers, and fresher than dew ! 
Other sweet things are here — why are not you ? 

Why do n't you come 1 we have welcomed the rose ; 
Every light zephyr, as gayly it goes. 
Whispers of other flowers, met on its way : 
Why has it nothing of you, love, to say 1 
Why does it tell us of music and dew ] 
Rose of the south, we are waiting for you. 

Do not delay, darling, mid the dark trees, 

Like a lute murmurs the musical breeze ; 

Sometimes the brook, as it trips by the flowers, 

Hushes its warble to listen for yours. 

Pure as the rivulet, lovely and true — 

Spring should have waited till she could bring you* 



THE UNEXPECTED DECLARATION. 

" Azfue-eted Eloise, beauty is thine, 
Passion kneels to thee, and calls thee divine ; 
Minstrels awaken the lute with thy name ; 
Poets have gladdened the world with thy fame ; 
Painters, half holy, thy loved image keep ; 
Beautiiiil Eloise, why do you weep ?" 
Still bows the lady her light tresses low — 
Fast the warm tears from her veiled eyes flow. 

" Sunny-haired Eloise, wealth is thine own ; 
Rich is thy silken robe — bright is thy zone ; 
Proudly the jewel illumines thy way; 
Clear rubies rival thy ruddy lip's play ; 
Diamonds like stardrops thy silken braids deck; 
Pearls waste their snow on thy lovelier neck ; 
Luxury softens thy pillow for sleep ; 
Angels watch over it ; why do you weep ?" 
Bows the fair lady her light tresses low — 
Faster the tears from her veiled eyes flow. 
" Gifted and worshipped one, genius and grace 
Play in each motion, and beam in thy face : 
When firom thy rosy lip rises the song, 
Hearts that adore thee the echo prolong ; 



280 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



Ne'er in the festival shone an eye brighter, 
Ne'er in the mazy dance fell a foot lighter. 
One only spirit thou 'st failed to bring down : 
Exquisite Eloise, why do you frown 1" 
SwiFt o'er her forehead a dark shadow stole, 
Sent from the tempest of pride in her soul. 

" Touched by thy sweetness, in love with thy grace, 
Charmed by the magic of mind in thy face. 
Bewitched by thy beauty, e'en his haughty strength, 
The strength of the stoic, is conquered at length : 
Lo ! at thy feet — see him kneeling the while — 
Eloise, Eloise, why do you smile ?" 
The hand was withdrawn from her happy blue eyes, 
She gazed on her lover with laughing surprise ; 
While the dimple and blush, steaUng soft to her 

cheek. 
Told the tale that her tongue was too timid to speak. 



STANZAS FOa MUSIC. 

Bf.liuvf. me, 'tis no pang of jealous pride 
That brings these tears I know not how to hide ; 
I only grieve because — because — I see 
Thou find 'st not all thy heart demands in me. 

I only grieve that others, who care less 
For thy dear love, thy lightest wish may bless ; 
That while to them thou'rt nothing — all to me — 
They may a moment minister to thee ! 

Ah ! if a fairy's magic might were mine, 

I 'd joy to change with each new wish of thine ; 

Nothing to all the world beside I'd be, 

And everything thou lovest, in turn to thee ! 

Pliant as clouds, that haunt the sun-god still, 
I 'd catch each ray of thy prismatic will ; 
I'd be a flower — a wild, sweet flower I 'd be — 
And sigh my very life away for thee ! 

I'd be a gem, and drink light from the sun. 
To glad thee with, if gems thy fancy won ; 
Were birds thy joy, I'd hght with docile glee 
Upon thy hand, and shut my wings for thee ! 

Could a wild wave thy glance of pleasure meet, 
I'd lay my crown of spray-pearls at thy feet; 
Or could a star delight thy heart, I 'd be 
The happiest star that ever looked on thee ! 

If music lured thy spirit, I would take 
A tune's aerial beauty for thy sake ; 
And float into thy soul, so I could see 
How to become all melody to thee. 

The weed, that by the garden blossom grows, 
Would, if it could, be glorious as the rose : 
It tries to bloom — its soul to light asphes ; 
The love of beauty every fibre fires. 

And I — no luminous cloud floats by above. 
But wins at once my envy and my love — 
So passionately wild this thirst in me, 
To be all beauty and all grace to thee I 

Alas ! I am but woman, fond and weak. 
Without even power my proud, pure love to speak ; 
But oh ! by all I fail in, love not me 
For what I am, but what I wish to be ! 



THE FLOWER LOVE-LETTEE. 

BLusHnfo and smiling ! do ye so, 
Delicious flowers, because you know 
To whose dear heart you soon shall go 1 
Ah, give my message well and true. 
And such a smile shall guerdon you ! 
His smile within whose luminous glow, 
As in the sun, you ought to grow ! 

Rose ! tell him — what I dared not tell. 
When last we met — how wildly well 
I love him — how my glad heart glows, 
Recalling every word he spake, 
(Remember that, thou radiant Rose !) 
In that sweet bower beside the lake. 

Be sure you blush and speak full low, 
Else you'll seem over bold I trow; 
Then hide you thus, with winsome grace, 
Behind those leaves — ^your glowing face ; 
But through them send a perfumed sigh, 
That to his very heart shall fly. 

And thou, my fragi-ant Lotos-flower, 
With balray whisper seek his bower, 
And say, " Zuleika sends in me 
A spirit kiss — a seal — to bind 
Thy favored lips to secrecy ; 
Oh, hide the heart she has resigned. 
Nor let the world, with jibe or scorn. 
Cloud her young Love's eflTulgent morn." 

Then, Lily, shrink in silence meek. 
And let my glorious Tulip speak ! 
And speak tliou, bright one, brave and bold, 
Lest my Rose show me over weak ; 
With stately gi'ace around thee fold 
Thy royal robe of gleaming gold. 
And tell him I, the Emir's child — 
With frame so slight, and heart so wild. 
Still treasure, 'neath this gemmed cymar. 
Proud honor's gem — a stainless star. 
And pure as Heaven, his soul must be. 
And true as Truth, who 'd mate with me. 

And if he answer — as he will — 
My faith on that — " I seek her still," 
Then do thou ring, my blue-bell flower, 
Thy joyous peal, and softly say, 
" Oh, wreathe with bridal bloom the bower ! 
For by to-morrow's earliest ray. 
From tyrant's cage — a bird set free, 
Zuleika flies — and flies to thee !" 

But if you mark, in those proud eyes, 
A shade — the least — of scorn arise. 
Or even doubt, the faintest hue — 
Ah, Heaven ! you will not ! — if you do, 
Shrink, wither, perish, in his sight, 
And murmur, ere you perish quite, 
" 'T is we — the flower-sylphs — here we dwell, 
Each in her own light painted cell — 
'T is we who made this idle tale ! 
At us — at us — oh, false one, rail ! 
The Emir's child would rather die. 
Than breathe for thee — one burning sigh ; 
She scorns thy suit and bids us say, 
The eaglet holds, alone, her way" — 
Then wither, perish in his sight. 
And leave me to my starless night ! 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



281 



A WEED. 

When from our northern woo(lspalesummer,flying, 
Breathes her lastfragrant sigh — her low farewell — 

Willie her sad wild flowers' dewy eyes, in dying, 
Plead for her stay, in every nook and dell, 

A heart, that loved too tenderly and truly, 
Will break at last — and in some dim, sweet shade. 

They' 11 smooth the sod o'er her you prized unduly. 
And leave her to the rest for which she prayed. 

Ah ! trustfully, not mournfully, they '11 leave her, 
Assured that deep repose is welcomed well ; 

The pure, glad breeze can whisper naught to grieve 
her. 
The brook's low voice no wrongful tale can tell. 

They'll hide her where no false one's footstep, steal- 
ing, 

Can mar the chastened meekness of her sleep ; 
Only to Love and Grief her grave revealing, 

And they will hush their chiding then^to weep ! 
And some — for though too oft she erred, too blindly. 

She was beloved, how fondly and how well ! — 
Some few, with faltering feet, will linger kindly, 

And plant dear flowers within that silent dell. 

I know whose fragile hand will bring the bloom 
Best lo'v'ed by both — the violet — to that bower ; 

And one will bid white lilies bless the gloom ; 
And one, perchance, will plant the passion-flower ! 

Then do thou come, when all the rest have parted — 
Thou, who alone dost know her soul's deep gloom, 

And wreathe above the lost, the broken-hearted. 
Some idle weed — that knew not how to bloom. 



TO SLEEP. 

Come to me, angel of the weary hearted, 
Since they my loved ones, breathed upon by thee, 

Unto thy realms unreal have departed, 
I, too, may rest — even I : ah ! haste to me. 

I dare not bid thy darker, colder brother 
With his more welcome offering appear, 

For those sweet lips, at morn,will murmur,' Mother,' 
And who shall soothe them if I be not near. 

Bring me no dream, dear Sleep, though visions 
glowing 

With hues of heaven thy wand enchanted shows ; 
I ask no glorious boon of thy bestowing. 

Save that most true, most beautiful — repose. 

I have no heart to rove in realms of Fancy — 

To follow Fancy at her elfin call : 
I am too wretched — too soul-worn and weary ; 

Give me but rest, for rest to me is all. 

Paint not the future to my fainting spirit. 
Though it were starred with glory like the skies ; 

There is no gift immortals may inherit. 
That could rekindle hope in these cold eyes. 

And for the Past — the fearful Past — ah ! never 
Be Memory's downcast gaze unveiled by thee : 

Would thou couldst bring oblivion for ever 
Of all that is, that has been, and will be ! 



SILENT LOVE. 

Ah ! let our love be still a folded flower, 
A pure, moss rosebud, blushing to be seen. 

Hoarding its balm and beauty for that hour 
When souls may meet without the clay between ! 

Let not a breath of passion dare to blow 
Its tender, timid, clinging leaves apart; 

Let not the sunbeam, with too ardent glow. 
Profane the dewy freshness at its heart ! 

Ah ! keep it folded like a sacred thing — [nurse ; 

With tears and smiles its bloom and fragrance 
Still let the modest veil around it cling. 

Nor with rude touch its pleading sweetness curse. 

Be thou content, as I, to know, not see, 
The glowing life, the treasured wealth within — 

To feel our spirit flower still fresh and free. 
And guard its blush, its smile, from shame and sin ! 

Ah, keep it holy ! once the veil withdrawn— 
Once the rose blooms — its balmy soul will fly. 

As fled of old in sadness, yet in scorn, 
Th' awakened god from Psyche's daruig eye ! 



BEAUTY'S PRAYER. 

Round great Jove his hghtnings shone. 
Rolled the universe before him, 

Stars, for gems, ht up his throne, 
Clouds, for banners, floated o'er him. 

With her tresses all untied. 

Touched with gleams of golden glory, 
Beauty came, and blushed, and sighed, 

Wliile she told her piteous story. 

" Hear ! oh, Jupiter ! thy child : 

Right my wrong, if thou dost love me ! 

Beast and bird, and savage wild. 
All are placed in power above me. 

" Each his weapon thou hast given. 

Each the strength and skill to wield it : 

Why bestow — Supreme in heaven ! 
Bloom on me with naught to shield it % 

" Even the rose — the wild-wood rose, 
Fair and fi'ail as I, thy daughter, 

Sately yields to soft repose. 

With her lifeguard thorns about her." 

As she spake in music wild. 

Tears within her blue eyes gUstened, 
Yet her red lip dimpling smiled. 

For the god benignly hstened. 

■' Child of Heaven !" he kindly said, 
" Try the weapons Nature gave thee ; 

And if danger near thee tread. 

Proudly trust to them to save thee. 

" Lance and talon, thorn and spear : 
Thou art armed with triple power, 

In that blush, and smile, and tear ! 
Fearless go, my fragile flower. 

" Yet dost thou, with all thy charms. 
Still for something more beseech me ? — 

Skill to use thy magic arms 1 

Ask of Love — and Love will teach thee !" 



282 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



DREAM-MUSIC, OR THE SPIRIT-FLUTE. 

TuF.RE, pearl of beauty ! lightly press, 
With yielding form, the yielding sand; 

And while you sift the rosy shells 
Within your dear and dainty hand, 

Or toss them to the heedless waves, 
That reck not how your treasures shine, 

As oft you waste on careless hearts 

Your fancies, touched with light divine — 

I'll sing a lay, more wild than gay — 

The story of a magic flute : 
And as I sing, the waves shall play 

An ordered tune, the song to suit. 

In silence flowed our grand old Rhine — 
For on his breast a picture burned. 

The loveliest of all scenes that shine. 
Where'er his glorious course has turned. 

That radiant morn the peasants saw 
A wondrous vision rise in light, 

They gazed, with blended joy and awe — 
A castle crowned the beetling height. 

Far up amid the amber mist. 

That softly wreathes each mountain-spire, 
The sky its clustered columns kissed. 

And touched their snow with golden fire : 

The vapor parts — against the skies, 

In delicate tracery on the blue. 
Those graceful turrets hghtly rise, 

As if to music there they grew I 

And issuing from its portal fair, 
A youth descends the dizzy steeps ; 

The sunrise gilds his waving hair. 
From rock to rock he lightly leaps : 

He comes — the radiant angel boy ! 

He moves with more than human grace ; 
His eyes are filled with earnest joy. 

And heaven is in his beauteous face. 

And whether bred the stars among, 
Or in that luminous palace born. 

Around his airy footsteps hung 
The light of an immortal morn. 

From steep to steep he fearless springs. 
And now he glides the throng amid. 

So Ught, as if still played the wings 
That 'neath his tunic sure are hid. 

A fairy flute is in his hand — 

He parts his bright, disordered hair. 

And smiles upon the wondering band — 
A strange, sweet smile, with tranquil air. 

Anon, his blue, celestial eyes 

He bent upon a youthful maid. 
Whose looks met his in still surprise. 

The wliile a low, glad tune he played. 
Her heart beat wildly — in her face 

The lovely rose-light went and came ; 
She clasped her hands with timid grace, 

In mute appeal, in joy and shame. 

Then slow he turned — more wildly breathed 
The pleading flute, and by the sound 



Through all the throng her steps she vrreathed. 
As if a chain were o'er her wound. 

All mute and still the group remained. 
And watched the charm, with lips apart. 

While in those linked notes enchained, 
The girl was led, with listening heart. 

The youth ascends the rocks again. 
And in his steps the maiden stole. 

While softer, holier grew the strain. 
Till rapture thrilled her yearning soul ! 

And fainter fell that fairy tune ; 

Its low, melodious cadence wound. 
Most like a rippling rill at noon. 

Through delicate lights and shades of sound : 

And with the music, gliding slow. 

Far up the steep their garments gleam; 

Now through the palace-gate they go. 
And now — it vanished like a dream ! 

Still frowns above thy waves, oh Rhine ! 

The mountain's wild terrific height. 
But where has fled the work divine 

That lent its brow a halo light 1 

Ah ! springing arch and pillar pale 

Had melted in the azure air ; 
And she — the darling of the dale — 

She too had gone — but how, and where 1 

Long years rolled by, and lo ! one morn, 
Again o'er regal Rhine it came — 

That picture from the dream-land borne, 
That palace built of frost and flame. 

Behold ! within its portal gleams 

A heavenly shape — oh, rapturous sight ! 

For lovely as the light of dreams 

She glides adown the mountain height ! 

She comes — the loved, the long-lost maid ! 

And in her hand the charmed flute ; 
But ere its mystic tune was played. 

She spake — the peasants listened mute : 

She told how in that instrument 

Was chained a world of winged dreams ; 

And how the notes that from it went 

Revealed them as with lightning gleams — 

And how its music's magic braid 

O'er the unwary heart it threw. 
Till he or she whose dream it played 

Was forced to follow where it drew. 

She told how on that marvellous day 
Within its changing tune she heard 

A forest fountain's plaintive play, 
A silver trill fi-om far-olf bird — 

And how the sweet tones, in her heart, - 
Had changed to promises as sweet. 

That if she dared with them depart. 

Each lovely hope its heaven should meet. 

And then she played a joyous lay. 
And to her side a fair child springs. 

And wildly cries, " Oh, where are they. 
Those singing birds, with diamond wings 1" 

Anon a loftier strain is heard — 

A princely youth beholds his dream. 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



283 



And, by tbe thrilling cadence stirred, 
Would follow where its wonders gleam. 

Still played the maid — and from the throng. 

Receding slow, the music drew 
A choice and lovely band along — 

The brave, the beautiful, the true ! 

The sordid, worldly, cold, remained, 
To watch that radiant troop ascend — 

To hear the fading fairy strain — 

To see with heaven the vision blend ! 

And ne'er again, o'er glorious Rhine, 

That sculptured dream rose calm and mute ; 

Ah, would that now once more 'twould shine. 
And I could play the fairy flute ! 

I'd play, Marie, the dream I see, 

Deep in those changeful eyes of thine. 

And thou perforce shouldst follow me 
Up — up where life is all divine ! 



TO MY PEN. 

Dost know, my little vagrant pen, 

That wanderest lightly down the paper, 

Without a thought how critic men 
May carp at every careless caper 1 

Dost know, twice twenty thousand eyes, 
If publishers report them truly. 

Each month may mark the sportive lies 
That track, oh shame ! thy steps unruly 1 

Now list to me, my fairy pen, 

And con the lessons gravely over ; 

Be never wild or false again, 

But " mind your Ps and Qs," you rover ! 

While tripping gayly to and fro, 

Let not a thought escape you lightly, 

But challenge all before they go, 

And see them fairly robed and rightly. 

You know that words but dress the frame, 
And thought's the soul of verse, my fairy ! 

So drape not spirits dull and tame 
In gorgeous robes or garments airy. 

I would not have my pen pursue 

The " beaten track" — a slave for ever ; 

No ! roam as thou wert wont to do, 
In author-land, by rock and river. 

Be like the sunbeam's burning wing, 
Be like the wand in Cinderella — 

And if you toucli a common thing. 

Ah, change to gold the pumpkin yellow ! 

May grace come fluttering round your steps. 
Whene'er, my bird, you light on paper, 

And music murmur at your lips, 

And truth restrain each truant caper. 

Let hope paint pictures in your way. 
And love his seraph-lesson teach you ; 

And rather calm with reason stray. 

Than dance with folly — I beseech you ! 

In Faith's pure fountain lave your wing. 
And r[uaff from feeling's glowing chalice ; 



But touch not falsehood's fatal spring. 
And shun the poisoned weeds of malice. 

Firm be the web you lightly spin, 

From leaf to leaf, though frail in seeming. 

While Fancy's fairy dew-gems win 

The sunbeam Truth to keep them gleaming. 

And shrink not thou when tyrant wrong 
O'er humble suffering dares deride thee : 

With lightning step and clarion song. 

Go ! take the field, with Heaven beside thee. 

Be tuned to tenderest music when 

Of sin and shame thou'rt sadly singing; 

But diamond be thy point, my pen, 

When folly's bells are round thee ringing ! 

And so, where'er you stay your flight, 

To plume your wing or dance your measure. 

May gems and flowers your pathway light. 
For those who track your tread, my treasure ! 

But what is this ? you've tripped about. 
While I the mentor grave was playing ; 

And here you've written boldly out 
The very words that I was saying ! 

And here, as usual, on you've flown 

From right to left — flown fast and faster. 

Till even while you wrote it down. 

You've missed the task you ought to master. 

NEW ENGLAND'S MOUNTAIN CHILD. 

Whehe foams the fall — a tameless storm — 

Through Nature's wild and rich arcade, 
AVhich forest ti"ees, entwining, form. 

There trips the mountain maid. 
She binds not her luxuriant hair 

With dazzling gem or costly plume, 
But gayly wreathes a rosebud there, 

To match her maiden bloom. 

She clasps no golden zone of pride 

Her fair and simple robe around ; 
By flowing riband, lightly tied. 

Its graceful folds are bound. 
And thus attired — a sportive thing, 

Pure, loving, guileless, bright, and wild — 
Proud Fashion ! match me in your ring. 

New England's mountain child ! 
She scorns to sell her rich, warm heart 

For paltry gold or haughty rank. 
But gives her love, untaught by art. 

Confiding, free, and frank. 
And, once bestowed, no fortune change 

That high and generous faith can alter ; 
Through grief and pain, too pure to range. 

She will not fly or falter. 
Her foot will bound as light and free 

In lowly hut as palace hall ; 
Her sunny smile as warm will be. 

For love to her is all. 
Hast seen where in our woodland gloom 

The rich magnolia proudly smiled 1 — 
So brightly doth she bud and bloom. 

New England's mountain child ! 



284 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD- 



"ASHES OF HOSES." 

I PKATED that God would take my cliild— 

I could not bear to see 
The look of suffering, strange and wild, 

With which she gazed on me : 
I prayed that God would take her back. 

But ah ! I did not know 
What agony at last 'twould be 

To let my darling go. 

She faded — faded in my arms, 

And with a faint, slow sigh, 
Her fair young spirit went away. 

Ah God ! I felt her die ! 
But oh ! so lightly to her form 

Death's kindly angel came. 
It only seemed a zephyr passed 

And quenched — a taper's flame ; 
A httle flower might so have died — 

So tranquilly she closed 
Her lovely mouth, and on my breast 

Her helpless head reposed. 

Where'er I go, I hear her low 

And plaintive murmur ring ; 
I feel her little fairy clasp 

Around my finger cling, 
For oh ! it seemed the darling dreamed, 

That while she clung to me. 
Safe from all harm of Death or pain 

She could not help but be, 
That I, who watched in helpless grief, 

My flower fade away. 
That I — ah, Heaven ! — had life and strength 

To keep her from decay ! 

She clung there to the very last — 

I knew that all was o'er. 
Only because that dear, dear hand, 

Could press mine own no more. 
Oh God ! give back, give back my child ! 

But one, one hour, that I 
May tell her all my passionate love 

Before I let her die ! 
Call not the prayer an impious one. 

For Thou didst fill my soul 
With this fond, yearning tenderness, 

That nothing can control ! 
But say instead, " Beside thy bed 

Thy child's sweet spirit glides. 
For pitying Love has heard the prayer 

Which heavenly wisdom chides !" 

I know, I know that she is blest : 

But oh ! I pine to see 
Once more the pretty, pleading smile 

She used to give to me ; 
I pine to hear that low, sweet trill 

With which, where'er I came. 
Her little, soft voice welcomed me, 

Half welcome and half blame ! 

I know her little heart is glad — 

Some gentle angel guides 
My loved one on her joyous way. 

Where'er in heaven she glides, 



Some angel far more wisely Idnd 

Than ever I could be. 
With all my blind, wild mother-love. 

My Fanny, tends on thee ; 
And every sweet want of thy heart 

Her care benign fulfils. 
And every whispered wish for me. 

With lulling love she stills. 

Upborne by its own purity. 

Thy light form floats away. 
And heaven's fair children round it throng, 

And woo thee to their play. 
Where flowers of wondrous beauty rise. 

And birds of splendor rare. 
And balm and hloom and melody 

Divinely fill the air. 

I hush my heart, I hide my tears, 

Lest he my grief should guess 
Who watched thee, darling, day and night, 

With patient tenderness ; 
'T would grieve his generous soul to see 

Tills anguish, wild and vain, 
And he would deem it sin in me 

To wish thee back again ; 
But oh ! when I am all alone, 

I can not calm my grief, 
I think of all thy touching ways 

And find a sweet relief: 
Thy dark blue, wishful eyes look up 

Once more into my own. 
Thy faint soft smile one moment plays — 

One moment thrills thy tone : 
The next — the vision vanishes. 

And all is still and cold ; 
I see thy little, tender form — 

Oh misery ! in the mould ! 
I shut my eyes, and pitying Heaven 

A happier vision gives, 
Thy spirit dawns upon my dream — 

I know my treasure lives. 

No, no, I must not wish thee back. 

But might I go to thee ! 
Were there no other loved ones here 

Who need my love and me ; 
I am so weary of the world — - 

Its falsehood and its strife — • 
So weary of the wrong and ruth 

That mar our human life ! 
Where thou art, Fanny, all is love 

And peace and pure delight ; 
The soul that here must hide its face. 

There lives serene in right ; 
And ever, in its lovely path. 

Some new, great truth divine. 
Like a clear star that dawns in heaven, 

Undyingly doth shine. 
My child, while joy and wisdom go 

Through that calm sphere with thee. 
Oh, wilt thou not sometimes look back. 

My pining heart to see 1 
For now a sti'ange fear chills my soul — 

A feeling like despair. 
Lest thou forget me mid those scenes — 

Thou dost not need me there ! 




ift W © A. 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



285 



Ah, no : the spirit-love, that looked 

From those dear eyes of thine, 
Was not of earth — it could not die ! 

It still responds to mine ! 
And it may be — (how thrills the hope 

Through all my soul again !) — 
That I may tend my child in heaven, 

Since here my watch was vain ! 



"YES! LOWER TO THE LEVEL." 

Yes ! " lower to the level" 

Of those who laud thee now; 
Go, join the joyous revel. 

And pledge the heartless vow ; 
Go, dim the soulborn beauty 
That hghts that lofty brow ; 
Fill, fill the bowl : let burning wine 
Drown, in thy soul. Love's dream divine. 

Vet when the laugh is lightest. 
When wildest goes the jest. 
When gleams the goblet brightest. 
And proudest heaves thy breast, 
And thou art madly pledging 
Each gay and jovial guest — 
A ghost shall glide amid the flowers — 
The shade of Love's departed hours. 

And thou shalt shrink in sadness 

From all the splendor there. 
And curse the revel's gladness, 

And hate the banquet's glare. 
And pine, mid Passion's madness, 
For true Love's purer air. 
And feel thou 'dst give their wildest glee 
For one unsullied sigh from me ! 

Yet deem not tliis my prayer, love : 

Ah ! no ; if I could keep 
Thy altered heart from care, love, 

And charm its grief to sleep, 
Mine only should despair, love, 
I — I alone would weep ! 
I — I alone would mourn the flowers 
That fade in Love's deserted bowers ! 



THE SOUL'S LAMENT FOR HOME. 

As 'plains the homesick ocean-shell 

Far from its own remembered sea, 
Repeating, like a fairy spell 

Of love, the charmed melody 
It learned within that whispering wave. 

Whose wondrous and mysterious tone 
Still wildly haunts its winding cave 

Of pearl, with softest music-moan — 
So asks my homesick soul below. 

For something loved, yet undefined ; 
So mourns to mingle with the flow 

Of music, from the Eternal Mind ; 
So murmurs, with its childlike sigh. 

The melody it learned above. 
To which no echo may reply. 

Save from thy voice, Celestial Love ! 



BIANCA. 

A wHispEn woke the air, 

A soft, light tone, and low. 

Yet barbed with shame and wo. 
Ah ! might it only perish there, 

Nor farther go ! 
But no ! a quick and eager ear 

Caught up the little, meaning sound — 
Another voice has breathed it clear — 

And so it wandered round 
From ear to lip, from Up to ear. 
Until it reached a gentle heart 
That throbbed from all the world apart, 

And that — it broke ! 
It was the only heart it found — 
The only heart 't was meant to find, 

When first its accents woke. 
It reached that gentle heart at last, 

And that — it broke ! 
Low as it seemed to other ears. 
It came a thunder-crash to hers — 
That fragile girl, so fair and gay. 
'T is said, a lovely humming-bird. 
That dreaming in a lily lay. 
Was killed but by the gun's report 
Some idle boy had fired in sport ; 
So exquisitely frail its frame, 
The very somid a death-blow came : 
And thus her heart, unused to shame, 

Shrined in its hi}', too — 

(For who the maid that knew. 
But owned the deUcate, flower-like grace 
Of her young form and face 7) 
Her Ught and happy heart, that beat 
With love and hope so fast and sweet, 
When first that cruel word it heard. 
It fluttered like a frightened bird — • 
Then shut its wings and sighed, 
And with a silent shudder died ! 



MUSIC. 



The Father spake ! In grand reverberations 
Through space rolled on the mighty music-tide, 

While to its low, majestic modulations, 
The clouds of chaos slowly swept aside. 

The Father spake — a dream, that had been lying 
Hushed from eternity in silence there, 

Heard the pure melody and low replying. 
Grew to that music in the wondering air — 

Grew to that music — slowly, grandly waking. 

Till bathed in beauty — it became a world ! 
Led by his voice, its spheric pathway taking, 

While glorious clouds theu- wings around it furied. 
Nor yet has ceased that sound — his love revealing, 

Though, in response, a universe moves by ! 
Throughout eternity, its echo pealmg — 

World after worid awakes in glad reply ! 
And wheresoever, in his rich creation. 

Sweet music breathes — in wave, or bird, or soul— 
'T is but the faint and for reverberation 

Of that great tune to which the planets roll ! 



286 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



"SHE LOVES HIM YET." 

She loves him yet ! 
I know by the lilush that rises 

Beneath the curls 
That shadow her soul-lit cheek : 

She loves him yet ! 
Through all Love's sweet disguises 

In timid girls, 
A blush will be sure to speak. 

But deeper signs 
Than the radiant blush of beauty, 

The maiden finds. 
Whenever his name is heard : 

Her young heart thrills, 
Forgetting herself — her duty ; 

Her dark eye tills, 
And her pulse with hope is stirred. 

She loves him yet ! 
The flower the false one gave her, 

When last he came, 
Is still with her wild tears wet. 

She '11 ne'er forget, 
Howe'er his faith may waver, 

Through grief and shame. 
Believe it — she loves him yet ! 

His favorite songs 
She will sing — she heeds no other : 

With all her wrongs 
Her life on his love is set. 

Oh, doubt no more ! 
She never can wed another : 

Till life be o'er. 
She loves — she will love him yet ! 



NO! 

If the dew have fed the flower, 
Shall she therefore, from that hour, 
Live on nothing else but dew 1 
Ask no more, from dawn of day — 
Never heed the sunny ray. 
Though it come, a glittering fay, 

To her bower ? 
Though upon her soul it play, 
Must she coldly turn away, 
And refuse the life it brings, 
Burning in its golden wings — 
Meekly lingering in the night, 

To herself untrue 1 
Though the humming-bird have stole. 
Floating on his plumes of glory, 
Softly to her glowing soul, 
TeUing his impassioned story — 
If the soaring lark she capture. 
In diviner love and rapture. 
Pouring music wild and clear. 
Round her till she thrills to hear — 
Shall she shut her spirit's ear ! 
Shall the lesson wasted be. 
Of that heavenly harmony ? 
No ! by all the inner bloom, 
That the sunbeam may illume. 



But that else the stealing chill 
Of the early dawn might kill : 
No ! by all the leaves of beauty, 
Leaves that, in their vestal duty. 
Guard the shrined and rosy light 
Hidden in her " heart of heart," 
Till that music bids them part : 
No I by all the perfume rare, 
Delicate as a fairy's sigh, 
Shut within and wasting there, 
That would else enchant the air — 
Incense tliat must soar or die ! 
That divine, pure soul of flowers. 
Captive held, that pines to fly, 
Asking for unfading bowers, 
Learning from the bird and ray 
All the lore they bring away 
From the skies in love and play. 
Where they linger every morn. 
Till to this sad world of ours 
Day in golden pomp is borne — 
By that soul, which else might glow 
An immortal flower : No ! 



SOiSTG. 



Should all who throng, with gift and song. 
And for my favor bend the knee, 

Forsake the shrine they deem divine, 
I would not stoop my soul to thee ! 

The lips, that breathe the burning vow, 
By falsehood base unstained must be ; 

The heart, to which mine own shall bow. 
Must worship Honor more than me. 

The monarch of a world wert thou. 
And I a slave on bended knee. 

Though tyrant chains my form might bow, 
My soul should never stoop to thee ! 

Until its hour shall come, my heart 
I will possess, serene and free ; 

Though snared to ruin by thine art, 

'T would sooner break than bend to thee ! 



"BOIS TON SANG, BE.\UMANOIR." 

Fi Eiic E raged the combat — the foemen pressed nigh. 
When from young Beaumanoir rose the wild cry, 
Beaumanoir, mid them all, bravest and first — 
" Give me to drink, for I perish of thirst !" 
Hark ! at his side, in the deep tones of ire, 
"Bois ton SANG, Beaiuuanoir !" shouted his sire. 

Deep had it pierced him — the foemen's swift sword. 
Deeper his soul felt the wound of that word : 
Back to the battle, with forehead all flushed. 
Stung to wild fury, the noble youth rushed ! 
Scorn in his dark eyes — his spirit on tire — 
Deeds were his answer that day to his sire. 
Still where triumphant the young hero came. 
Glory's bright garland encircled his name : 
But in her bower, to beauty a slave. 
Dearer the guerdon his lady-love gave, 
While on his shield, that no shame had defaced, 
" Bois ton sang, Beaumanoir !" proudly she traced. 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



287 



CAPRICE. 

Reprove me not that still I change 

With every changing hour. 
For glorious Nature gives me leave 

In wave, and cloud, and flower. 

And you and all tlie world would do — 

If all but dared — the same ; 
True to myself — if false to you. 

Why should I reck your blame . 
Then cease your carping, cousin mine, 

Your vain reproaches cease ; 
I revel in my right divine — 

I glory in caprice ! 

Yon soft, light cloud, at morning hour, 
Looked dark and full of tears : 

At noon it seemed a rosy flower — 
Now, gorgeous gold appears. 

So yield I to the deepening light 
That dawns around my way : 

Because you Unger with the night, 
Shall I my noon delay I 

No ! cease your carping, cousin mine — 

Your cold reproaches cease ; 
The chariot of the cloud be mine — 

Take thou the reins. Caprice ! 

'T is true you played on Feeling's lyre 

A pleasant tune or two, 
And oft beneath your minstrel fire 

The hours in music flew ; 

But when a hand more skilled to sweep 

The harp, its soul allures. 
Shall it in sullen silence sleep 

Because not touched by yours 1 
Oh, there are rapturous tones in mine 

That mutely pray release ; 
They wait the master-hand divine — 

So tune the chords, Caprice ! 
Go — strive the sea-wave to control; 

Or, wouldst thou keep rae thine, 
Be thou all being to my soul, 

And fill each want divine : 
Play every string in Love's sweet lyre — 

Set all its music flowing ; 
Be air, and dew, and light, and fire. 

To keep the soul-flower growing : 
Be less — thou art no love of mine. 

So leave my love in peace ; 
'T is helpless woman's right divine — 

Her only right — caprice ! 
And I will mount her opal car. 

And draw the rainbow reins. 
And gayly go firom star to star, 

Till not a ray remains ; 
And we will find all fairy flowers 

That are to mortals given. 
And wreathe the radiant, changing hours. 

With those " sweet hints" of heaven. 
Her humming-birds are harnessed there — 

Oh ! leave their wings in peace ; 
Like " flying gems" they glance in air — 

We '11 chase the light. Caprice ! , 



SONG. 

I lovED an ideal — I sought it in thee ; 
I found it unreal as stars in the sea. 

And shall I, disdaining an instinct divine — 

By falsehood profaning that pure hope of mine — 

Shall I stoop from my vision so lofty, so true — 
From the light all Elysian that round me it threw 1 

Oh ! guilt unforgiven, if false I could be 

To myself and to Heaven, while constant to thee. 

Ah no ! though all lonely on earth be my lot, 
I '11 brave it, if only that trust fail me not — ■ 

The trust that, in keeping all pure irom control 
The love that lies sleeping and dreams in my soul, 

It may wake in some better and holier sphere. 
Unbound by the fetter Fate hung on it here. 



ASPIRATIONS. 

I WASTE no more in idle dreams 

My life, my soul away ; 
I wake to know my better self — ■ 

I wake to watch and pray. 
Thought, feeling, time, on idols vain, 

I 've lavished all too long : 
Henceforth to holier purposes 

I pledge myself, my song ! 

Oh ! still within the inner veil, 

Upon the spirit's shrine. 
Still unprofaned by evd, burns 

The one pure spark divine. 
Which God has kindled in us all, 

And be it mine to tend 
Henceforth, with vestal thought and care, 

The light that lamp may lend. 

I shut mine eyes in grief and shame 

Upon the dreary past — 
My heart, my soul poured recklessly 

On dreams that could not last ; 
My bark was drifted down the stream, 

At will of wind or wave — 
An idle, light, and fragile thing, 

That few had cared to save. 

Henceforth the tiller Truth shall hold, 

And steer as Conscience tells. 
And I will brave the storms of Fate, 

Though wild the ocean swells. 
I know my soul is strong and high, 

If once I give it sway ; 
I feel a glorious power within, 

Though light I seem and gay. 

Oh, laggard Soul ! unclose thine eyes — 

No more in luxury soft 
Of joy ideal waste thyself: 

Awake, and soar aloft ! 
Unfurl this hour those falcon wings 

Which thou dost fold too long ; 
Raise to the skies thy lightning gaze, 
' And sing thy loftiest song I 



LUCY HOOPER. 



There have been in our literary history 
few more interesting characters than Lucy 
HoorER. She died at an early age, but not 
until her acquaintances had seen developed 
in her a nature that was all truth and gentle- 
ness, nor until the world had recognised in 
her writings the signs of a rare and delicate 
genius, that wrought in modesty, but in re- 
pose, in the garden of the affections and in 
the light of religion. 

She was born in Newburyport, in Massa- 
chusetts, on the fourth of February, 1816, 
and was the daughter of Mr. Joseph Hooper, 
a respectable merchant, who saw with anx- 
ious pride the unfolding of her abilities, and 
attended sedulously and judiciously to their 
cultivation. After his death, and when Miss 
Hooper was in her fifteenth year, the survi- 
ving members of th e family removed to Brook- 
lyn, on Long Island; and in this city she 
passed the remainder of her life. Her health, 
from childhood, was precarious, and it is pos- 
sible that the ever-fatal disease of which she 
died had already affected her physical ener- 
gies, while it quickened her intellectual fac- 
ulties and made them accessaries to her de- 
cay. Her mind was delicately susceptible of 
impressions of beauty , and she delighted most 
in nature, particularly in flowers, the study 
and cultivation of which were among her 
dearest pleasures. 

Her first poems that were published ap- 
peared in The Long Island Star, a Brooklyn 
journal, under the signature of her initials. 
Her youth would have protected her compo- 
sitions from criticism, but they needed no 
such protection. Beyond the limited circle 
of her acquaintances, no one knew the mean- 
ing of " L. H. ;" but these letters were soon 
as familiar through all the country as the 
names of favorite poets. For several years she 
was a contributor to The New-Yorker, the 
editor of which, Mr. Greeley — one of the first 
justly to appreciate her merits — became au 
intimate personal as well as literary friend. 

In midsummer, 1839, Miss Hooper revis- 
ited her native village, and upon leaving it, 
the last time, she wrote the following lines, 



which have a biographical interest, though 
they are scarcely equal to the average of her 
productions in literary merit: 

LINES WRITTEN AFTER VISITING NEWBURYPORT, 
AUGUST 23, 1839. 

Sweet were the airs of home, when first their breath 
Came to the wanderer, as her gladdened eye 
Met the rich verdure of her native hills. 
And the clear, glancing waters brought again 
A thousand dreams of childhood to the heart 
That had so pined amid the city's hum 
For the glad breath of home, the waving trees. 
And the fair flowers that in the olden time 
Blew freshly mid the rocky cUSs. 

All these 
Had seemed but Fancy's picture, and the hues 
Of Memory's pencil, fainter day by day. 
Gave back the tracery ; in the crowded mart 
There were no green paths where the buds of home 
Might blow unchecked, and a forgotten thing 
Were Spring's first violets to the wanderer's heart. 
Till once again amid those welcome haunts 
The faded lines grew vivid, and the flowers — 
The fresh, pure flowers of youth, brought back again 
The bloom of early thoughts. 

Oh ! brightly glanced 
Thy waters, river of my heart, and dreams 
Sweeter than childhood conneth came anew 
With my first sight of thee, bright memories linked 
With thy familiar music, sparkling tide ! 
The rocks and hills all smiled a welcome back, 
And Memory's pencil hath a fadeless green 
For that one hour by thee. 

Oh, gentle home ! 
Comes with thy name fair visions, kindly tones, 
Warm greetings from the heart, and eyes whose light 
Hath smiled upon my dreams. 

Yet golden links 
Were strangely parted, music tones had past, 
And ties unloosed, that unto many a heart 
Were bound with life ; the mushig child no more 
Might watch the glancing of the distant sails, 
And dream of one whose glad returning step 
Made ever the fair sunshine of her home ; 
The sister's heart might no more thrill to meet 
One voice, that in the silence of the grave 
Is hushed for ever, and whose eye's soft light 
Come with its starry radiance, when her soul 
Pines in the silent hour, and lliere waves 
O'er the last resting place of one whose name 
Is music to the ear of love, the green 
And pensive willow, bending low its head 
As it would weep the loss of that fair flower 
Which, far removed from her own native clime, 
Drooped in a land of strangers. 

Home, sweet home. 
There are sad memories with thee ; earth hath not 
283 



LUCY HOOPER. 



2S9 



Aplace where change ne'er cometh, and where death 
Doth cast no shadow ! yet the moonhght lieth 
Softly in all thy still and shaded streets, 
And the deep stars of midnight purely shine, 
Bringing a thought of that far world where Love 
Bindeth again his lost and treasured gems. 
And in whose " many mansions" there may he 
A home where change ne'er cometh, and where death 
May leave no trace upon the pure in heart, 
Who bend before their Father's throne in heaven ! 

In 1840, Miss Hooper published an Essay 
on Domestic Happiness, and a volume enti- 
tled Scenes from Real Life ; and in these, as 
well as in other prose writings, are shown 
the sensibility and natural grace which are 
the charm of her poetry. It was about the 
same time that she wrote The Last Hours 
of a Young Poetess, a poem which has some- 
times been referred to as an illustration of 
her own history. 

The excellent Dr. JohnW. Francis, of whom 
with a slight variation we may use the lan- 
guage of Coleridge respecting Sir Humphrey 
Davy, that had he not become one of the first 
physicians he would have been among the 
most eminent literary men of his age, is ad- 
mirably fitted, as well by his intimate obser- 
vation of the influence of mental action upon 
health, as by his general professional skill 
and genial sympathies, to watch over and 
protect so fragile and delicate a being, hap- 
pily attended Miss Hooper in her illness; 
and in a letter which, soon after her death, 
he addressed to Mr. Keese, the editor of her 
works, we have an interesting account of the 
close of her life : 

" For a period of many years," be says, 
"the cultivation of her mind was little in- 
terrupted ; and though her corporeal suffering 
was often an obstacle to continuous effort, 
she sustained with unabated ardor her stud- 
ies in the ancient and modern languages, in 
polite literature, in botany, and in several 
of the other branches of natural science. 
Doubtless the extent of her reading and her 
acquisitions in varied knowledge contributed 
to cherish in her femily the delusive expec- 
tation that her constitution was destined for 
a longer career of active exertion than fell to 
her lot. Mental effort may in some instances 
protract the duration of those energies which 
at length it consumes. But the hopes cher- 
ished by her too ardent friends never for a 
moment deceived herself. For the last four 
months of her existence, her physical pow- 
ers were j'ielding to the combined influence 
^19 



of disease and Latellectual action ; and after 
a few days of aggravated suffering, painful 
evidences were manifest of the fatality which 
was impending. Her disorder was pulmo- 
nary consumption ; and the insidious peculi- 
arities of that treacherous malady were con- 
spicuous in her case in an eminent degree. 
Within three days of her dissolution she was 
occupied, with intervals of serious reflection, 
in her literary labors, and conversed freely 
on her projected plan of a series of moral 
tales, her book on flowers, and other works. 
Her life and habits of thought had long pre- 
pared her for the final event : severe exam- 
ination and inquiry contributed to strengthen 
the consolation of religion. In her death, 
which was without pain and without a strug- 
gle, she bequeathed to her friends triumphant 
evidences of that hope which animates the 
expiring Christian." 

She died in Brooklyn, on the first of Au- 
gust, 1841. I happened at this time to be in 
Boston, and a few daj'S after, Mr. Whittier, 
who was one of her intimate friends, sent 
me from his place in Amesbury the following 
beautiful and touching tribute to her memory, 
which I had published in one of the papers 
of that city: 

"ON THE DEATH OF LUCT HOOPER. 

" They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead — 
That all of thee we loved and cherished 
Has with thy summer roses perished ; 
And left, as its young beauty fled, 
An ashen memory in its stead ! — • 
Cold twilight of a parted day. 
That true and loving heart — that gift 
Of a mind earnest, clear, profound, 
Bestowing, with a glad untlirift, 
Its sunny light on all around, 
AflBnities which only could 
Cleave to the beautiful and good — 
And sympathies which found no rest 
Save with the loveliest and the best — 
Of them, of thee, remains there naught 
But sorrow m the mourner's breast — 
A shadow in the land of Thought 1 
" No ! Even my weak and trembling faith 
Can lift for thee the veil which doubt 
And human fear have drawn about 
The all-awaiting scene of death. 
Even as thou wast I see thee still; 
And, save the absence of all ill. 
And pain, and weariness, which here 
Summoned the sigh or wrmig the tear. 
The same as when two summers back. 
Beside our childhood's Merrimack, 
I saw thy dark eye wander o'er 
Stream, sunny upland, rocky shore. 
And heard thy low, soft voice alone 
Midst lapse of waters, and the tone 



290 



LUCY HOOPER. 



Of sere leaves hy the west-wind blown. 
There's not a charm of soul or brow, 

Of all we knew and loved in thee, 
But lives in holier beauty now. 

Baptized in immortality ! 
Not mine the sad and freezing dream 

Of souls that with their earthly mould 

Cast off the loves and joys of old — 
Unbodied — Uke a pale moonbeam. 

As pure, as passionless, and cold; 
Nor mine the hope of Indra's son. 

Of slumbering in oblivion's rest, 
Life's myriads blending into one. 

In blank annihilation blest ; 
Dust-atoms of the infinite — 
Sparks scattered tirom the central light. 
And winning back, through mortal pain. 
Their old unconsciousness again ! — 
No ! I have friends in spirit-land. 
Not shadows in a shadowy band. 

Not others, but themselves, are they. 
And still I think of them the same 
As when the Master's summons came ; 
Their change, the holy morn-light breaking 
Upon the dream-worn sleeper, waking — 

A change fi-om twilight into day ! 
They 've laid thee midst the household graves. 

Where father, brother, sister, lie ; 
Below thee sweep the dark blue waves, 

Above thee bends the summer sky ; 
Thy own loved church in sadness read 
Her solemn ritual o'er thy head, 
And blessed and hallowed with her prayer 
The turf laid lightly o'er thee there : 
That church, whose rites and liturgy, 
Sublime and old, were truth to thee. 
Undoubted, to thy bosom taken 
As symbols of a faith unshaken. 
Even I, of simpler views, could feel 
The beauty of thy trust and zeal ; 
And, owning not thy creed, could see 
How lifelike it must seem to thee. 
And how thy fervent heart had throvra 
O'er all a coloring of its own. 
And kindled up intense and warm 
A life in every rite .and form ; 
As, when on Chebar's banks of old 
The Hebrew's gorgeous vision rolled, 
A spirit filled the vast machine — 
A hfe 'within the wheels' was seen! 

" Farewell ! — a little time, and we 

Who knew thee well, and loved thee here. 
One after one shall follow thee. 

As pilgrims through the gate of Fear 
Which opens on Eternity. 
Yet we shall cherish not the less 

All that is left our hearts meanwhile ; 
The memory of thy loveliness 

Shall round our weary pathway smile. 
Like moonlight, when the sun has set, 
A sweet and tender radiance yet. 
Thoughts of thy clear-eyed sense of duty, 

Thy generous scorn of all things wrong ; 
The truth, the strength, the graceful beauty. 

Which blended in thy song ; 



All lovely things by thee beloved 

Shall whisper to our hearts of thee : 
These green hills where thy childhood roved ; 

Yon river winding to the sea ; 
The sunset light of Autumn eves 

Reflecting on the deep, still floods ; 
Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leaves 

Of rainbow-tinted woods — ' 
These in our view shall henceforth take 
A tenderer meaning for thy sake. 
And all thou lovedst of earth and sky 
Seem sacred to thy memory." 

The general regret at her death was shown 
in many such feeling tributes. Another is 
quoted here, not so much for its own beauty, 
as for the opinions it embodies of one of our 
most accomplished critics respecting her ge- 
nius and character : 

ON THE DEATH OF MISS LUCY HOOPER. 
BY H. T. TUCKERMAN. 

" And thou art gone ! sweet daughter of the lyre, 

Whose strains we hoped to hear thee waken long ; 
Gone — as the stars in morning's light expire. 

Gone like the rapture of a passing song ; 
Gone from a circle who thy gifts have cherished. 

With genial fondness and devoted care. 
Whose dearesthopes with thee have sadly perished, 

And now can find no solace but in prayer ; 
Prayer to be like thee, in so meekly bearing 

Both joy and sorrow ii'om thy Maker's hand ; 
Prayer to put on the white robes thou art wearing. 

And join thy anthem in the better land." 

Miss Hooper's life was singularly indus- 
trious, considering the feebleness of her con- 
stitution. She seemed to be sensible that her 
abilities were a trust which imposed respon- 
sibilities, and she never suffered time to pass 
unimproved. Some of her last days were 
devoted to the preparation of a work entitled 
The Poetry of Flowers, which was published 
soon after her death. She had in anticipa- 
tion also another work in prose similar to 
her Scenes from Domestic Life, and her in- 
clination had led her to undertake a long 
poem, upon some historical subject. It is to 
be regretted that death prevented this project 
from being realized. 

In 1842 Mr. John Keese collected and ar- 
ranged the Literary Remains of Miss Hoop- 
er, which he published with a graceful and 
affectionate memoir of her life and genius. 
No one knew her more intimately, and there 
are few whose appreciation of personal char- 
acter and poetical merit would have enabled 
them so well to perform this mournfully pleas- 
ing duty. In the present year (184S) a new 
and considerably enlarged edition of her Po- 
etical Works has appeared from the press of 
Mr. D. Fanshaw. 



LUCY HOOPER. 



291 



THE SUMMONS OP DEATH.* 

A ToicE is on mine ear — a solemn voice : 

I come, I come, it calls me to my rest ; 
Faint not my yearning heart, rejoice, rejoice, 

Soon shalt thou reach the gardens of the blest : 
On the bright waters there, the living streams. 

Soon shalt thou launch in peace thy weary bark, 
Waked by rude waves no more from gentle dreams, 

Sadly to feel that earth to thee is dark — 
Not bright as once ; oh vain, vain memories, cease, 
I cast your burden down — I strive for peace. 

A voice is on mine ear — a welcome tone : 

I hear its summons in a stranger land, 
It calls me hence, to die amid mine own, 

M'here first my forehead, by the wild breeze fanned, 
Lost the fair tracery of youth, and wore 

A deeper signet, in my manhood's prime — 
To lay me down with those who wake no more. 

It calls me — those I loved, their couch be miae : 
I hear sweet voices from my childhood's home, 
And from my father's grave — I come, I come ! 

Blest be the warning sound : my mother's eyes 

Dwell on my memory yet, her parting tears. 
And from the grave where my young sister Ues, 

Who perished in the glory of her years, 
I hear a gentle call, " Return, return !" 

So be it : let me greet the. village spires 
Once more. I come — 't is wilding youth may spurn, 

When far, the burial-places of his sires ; 
But oh, when strength is gone, and hope is past, 
There turns the wearied man his thoughts at last. 

So do we change ! I hear a warning tone — • 

Yea, I, whose thouglits were all of hypast times. 
Of ancient glories, and from visions lone, 

I come to list once more the sabbath chimes 
Of my own home — to feel the gentle air 

Steal o'er my brow again — to greet the sun 
In the old places where he shone so fair. 

The while each wandering brook in music ran, 
Answering to Youth's sweet thoughts, but all are 
I come, my home, I come to join thy dead ! [fled — ■ 

I heed the warning voice : oh, spurn me not, 

My early friends ; let the bruised heart go free : 
Mine were high fancies, but a wayward lot 

Hath made my youthful dreams in sadness flee ; 
Then chide not, I would linger yet awhile. 

Thinking o'er wasted hours, a weary train. 
Cheered by the moon's soft light, the sun's glad smile, 

Watching the blue sky o'er my path of pain. 
Waiting my summons : whose shall be the eye 
To glance unkindly — I have come to die ! 

Sweet words — to die ! oh pleasant, pleasant sounds, 
What bright revealings to my heart they bring ; 

* Anil should they ask the cause of my return, I will 
tell them that a man may go far and tarry long away, if 
his health be good and his hopes high, but that when flesh 
and spirit begin to fail, he remembers his birthplace and 
the old burial ground, and hears a voice calling him to 
come home to his father and mother. They mil know 
by my wasted frame and feeble step, that I have heard 
the summons and obeyed; and, the tirst greetings over, 
they will let me walk among them unnoticed, and linger 
in tbe sunshine wiiile 1 may, and steal into my grave in 
peace. — Journal of a Solitary Man. 



What melody, unheard in earth's dull rounds, 
And floating from the land of glorious Spring — 

The eternal home ! my weary thoughts re\'ive, 
Fresh flowers my mind puts forth, and buds of love, 

Gentle and Idndly thoughts for all that live. 
Fanned by soft breezes from the world above : 

And pa.ssing not, I hasten to my rest — 

Again, oh gentle summons, thou art blest ! 



"TIME, FAITH, ENERGY."' 

High words and hopeful ! — fold them to thy heart. 
Time, Faith, and Eirergy, are gifts sublime ; 
If thy lone bark the threatening, waves surround, 
Make them of all thy silent thoughts a part. 
When thou wouldst cast thy pilgrim staff away. 
Breathe to thy soul their high, mysterious sound, 
And faint not in the noontide of thy day : 
Wait thou for Time ! 

Wait thou for Time : the slow-unfolding flower 
Chides man's impatient haste with long delay ; 
The harvest ripening in the autumnal sun ; 
The golden fruit of Suffering's weighty power 
Within the soul — like soft bells' silvery chime 
Repeat the tones, if fame may not be won. 
Or if the heart where thou shouldst find a shrine, 
Breathe forth no blessmg on thy lonely way — 

Wait thou for Time: it hath a sorcerer's power 
To dim life's mockeries that gayly shine, 
To hft the veil of seeming from the real, 
Bring to thy soul a rich or fearful dower. 
Write golden tracery on the sands of life, 
And raise the drooping heart from scenes ideal 
To a high purpose in the world of strife : 
Wait thou for Time ! 

Yea, wait for Time, but to thy heart take Faith, 
Soft beacon-light upon a stormy sea ; 
A mantle for the pure in heart, to pass 
Through a dim world, untouched by living death, 
A cheerful watcher through the spirit's night. 
Soothing tire grief from whicli she may not flee — 
A herald of glad news — a seraph bright. 
Pointing to sheltering havens yet to be. 

Yea, Faith and Time — and thou that through the 
Of the lone night hast nerved the feeble hand, [hour 
Kindled the weary heart with sudden fire, 
Gifted the drooping soul with living power. 
Immortal Energy ! shalt thou not be 
While the old tales our wayward thoughts inspire, 
Linked with each vision of high destiny. 
Till on the fadeless borders of that land 

Where all is known we find our certain way, 
And lose ye, mid its pure, effulgent light 1 
Kind ministers, who cheered us in our gloom, 
Seraphs who lightened griefs with guiding ray. 
Whispering tlirough tears of cloudless glory dawn- 
Say, in the gardens of eternal bloom [ing — ■ 
Will not our hearts, when breaks the cloudless 
morning, 
Joy that ye led us through the drooping night 1 

* Suggested by a passage in Bulwer's Night and Mom. 
ing. 



292 



LUCY HOOPER. 



LAST HOURS OF A YOUNG POETESS. 

"Alas! our young affections run to waste 
Or water but the desert, wliencri ariae 
But weeda of dark luxuriance, tares of liaate, 
Rank at tLe core, but templing to the eyes, 
Flowers wbose wild odors breatbe but agonies. 
And trees wbose gums are poison: sncb tlie fruits 
Whicli spring beneath her steps, as Passion flies 
O'er the wild wilderness, and v,ainly pants 
For some celestial fruit, forbidden to our wants !" — Byron. 

Tiinow up the window ! that the earnest eyes 
Of the young devotee at Nature's shrine 
May catch a last glimpse of this breathing world 
From which she is removing. 

Men will say 
This is an early death, and they will write 
The record of her few and changeful years 
With wonder on the marble, and then turn 
Away with thoughtful brows from the green sod, 
Yet pass to daily business, for the griefs 
That press on busy spirits may not turn 
Their steps aside from the worn paths of life, 
Or bear upon the memory when the quick 
And selfish course of daily care sweeps by. 
Yet, when they speak of that lost one, 't will be 
M'ith tones of passionate marvel, for they watched 
Her bright career as they would watch a star 
Of dazzling brilliancy, and mourn to see 
Its glory quenched, and wonder while ye mourned 
How the thick pall of darkness could be thrown 
O'er such a radiant thing. 

Is this the end 
Of all thy glorious visions, young Estelle 1 
Hath thy last hours drawn on, and will thy life 
Pass by as quickly as the perfumed breath 
Of some fair flower upon the zephyr's wings ? 
And will they lay thee in the quiet grave, 
And never know how fervently thy heart 
Panted for its repose 1 Oh ! let the peace 
Of this sweet hour be hers ; let her gaze forth 
Now on the face of Nature for the last. 
While the bright sunbeam trembles in the air 
Of the meek-coming twilight : it will soothe 
Her spirit as a spell, and waken up 
Impassioned thoughts, and kindle burning dreams, 
And call back glorious visions. 

Marvel not 
To see her color pass, and view the tears 
Fast gathering to her eyes, and see her bend 
In very weakness at the fearful shrine 
Of Memory, when the glory of the past 
Is gone for ever. Gaze not on her now : 
Her spirit is a delicate instrument. 
Nor can ye know its measure. How unlike 
That wearied one to the bright, gifted girl. 
Who knelt a worshipper at the deep shrine 
Of Poetry, and, mid the fairest things. 
Pined for lone solitude — to read the clouds 
With none to watch her, and dream pleasant tilings 
Of after-life, and see in every flower 
The mysteries of Nature, and behold 
In every star the herald and the sign 
Of immortality, till she almost shrank 
To feel the secret and expanding might 
Of her own mind ! and thus amid the flowers 
Of a glad home grew beautiful. Away 
With praises upon Time ! with hollow tones 



That tell the blessedness of after-years ! 

They take the fragrance from the soul ; they rob 

Life of its gloss, its poetry, its charm, 

Till the heart sickens, and the mental wing 

Droops wearily : and thus it was with her. 

The gifted and the lovely. Oh, how much 

The world will envy those whose hearts are filled 

With secret or unchanging grief, if fame 

Or outward splendor gilds them ! Who among 

The throngs that sung thy praises, young Estelle, 

Or crowned thy brow with laurels, ever recked 

That, wearier of thy chaplet than the slave 

May be with daily toil, thy hand would cast 

The laurel by with loathing, but the pride 

Of woman's heart withheld thee I 

Oh, how praise 
Falls on the sorrowing mind ; how cold the voice 
Of Flattery, when the spirit is bowed down 
Before its mockery, and the heart is sick ; 
Praise for the gift of genius — for the grace 
Of outward form — when the soul pines to hear 
One kindly tone and true I What bitter jest 
It maketh of the enthusiast, to whom 
One star alone can shine, one voice be heard 
In tones of blessedness, to know that crowds 
Of earth's light-hearted ones are treasuring up 
Against their day of sorrow the deep words 
Of wretchedness and miseiy which burst 
From an o'erhurdened spirit, and that minds 
Which may not rise to heaven on the wings 
Of an inspired fancy, yet can list 
With raptured ear to the ethereal dreams 
Of a high-soaring genius. For this end 
Didst thou seek fame, Estelle ; — and hast thou 
The atmosphere of poetry, till life [breathed 

With its dull toil grew wearisome and lone ? 

Her brow grew quickly pale, and murmured words 
That not in life dwelt on that gentle lip. 
Are spoken in the recklessness of death. 
They tell of early dreams — of cherished hopes 
That faded into bitterness ere Fame 
Became the spirit's idol, of lost tones 
Of music, and of well-remembered words 
That thrill the spirit yet. Again it comes. 
That half-reproachful voice that she hath spent 
Her Ufe at Passion's shrine, and patient there 
Hath sacrificed, and offered incense to 
An absent idol — that she might not see. 
Even in death — and tlien again the strength 
Of a high soul sustains her, and she joys. 
Yea, triumphs in her fame, that he may hear 
Her name with honor, when the dark shades fall 
Around her, and she sleeps in still repose : 
If some faint tone should reach him at the last 
Of her devotedness, he will not spurn 
The memory fi-om him, but his soul may thrill 
To think of her, the fervent-hearted girl. 
Who turned from flattering tones, and idly cast 
The treasures of her spirit on the winds, 
And found no answering voice I 

Then prayed for death, 
yince life's sweet spells had vanished, and her hopes 
Had melted in thin air : and laying down 
Her head upon her pillow, sought her rest. 
And thought to meet him in the land of dreams ! 



LUCY HOOPER. 



293 



THE TURaUOISE RING." 

The turquoise ring! "twas a gift of power, 
Guarding her heart in that weary hour, 
As a magic spell, as a gem of light. 
As a pure, pure star amidst clouds of night. 
Bringing back to the pale, pale cheek its bloom. 
Strengthening the heart in that hour of doom ; 
There was hope, there was trust witli its living hue, 
The gem was bright, and the lover true. 
As a sign to her heart, as a sign to her eye, 
The one bright gleam of a troubled sky. 
The turquoise ring I oh, the olden time 
Hath many a magic tale and sign. 
Bright gifts of treasure on land and on sea, 
But naught for the heart or the memory ; 
For what might the fairy lamp of old 
Yield to its owner but gems and gold ] 
And to her who sat in that lonely hall 
The turquoise ring was worth them all ; 
For the heart hath a dearer wealth than lies 
In the earth's wide halls and argosies ; 
And its hopes are more precious than stores of gold 
M'hen richest and rarest by miser told, 
For what had been gems that brightly shone, 
To her who sat in her grief alone 1 

Oh, the turquoise ring had a spell of power ! 
This was a gift for the weary hour. 
Linking the future to all the past. 
Breathing of moments too bright to last. 
Till they came in the light of their bliss. 
To soothe, to gladden an hour like this. 
Oh ! Love hath wings, they have said who knew, 
And that Love hath wings is a story true. 
But th"ere lingers a bloom on his early hours. 
When his wings are folded mid opening flowers. 
When the streams are bright, and the sky is fair. 
And the hearts too happy that trust him there ; 
There lingers a bloom, and there rests a glow, 
A charm that the earth not again may know ! 
And when from that resting-place he fiies, 
Oh ! linked with a thousand memories. 
Each bud and each leaf by our fond tears wet. 
May breathe of his sweetness and beauty yet ! 
So with the past, and its holy love — 
So with its hopes, that soared above — 
With the visions that came to her nightly rest. 
Was the turquoise ring to her finger pressed ; 
Oh ! beautiful to her its light. 
Could she forget that pleasant night 
M^hen first her finger's slender round 
Was with the golden circlet bound, 
And blushed she not to see it shine. 
But at the low tone, " Love, be mine !" 

Since then, since then, unchanged its hue, 
Her hope, her trust, alike were true ; 
But pale at tijnes that cheek so bright. 
And dimmed those ey6s of living light. 
For dreams were hers of pain and dread, 

* In Miss Martineau's novel of Deerbrook. the heroine 
is made to pre.^erve with great care a turquoise ring, 
wliicli lier lover liad siven her in the early days of their 
attachment, and during a Ions period of doubt and eB- 
trangemeiit, to believe thut while its hues continued uu- 
diinmed. his faith remained to her unbroken. So poetic 
and fervent a belief met with its appropriate reward : the 
turquoise ring remained bright, and the lover returned. 



Yet still the ring its lustre shed ; 
They met and parted, as of yore 
Fond hearts have met, and chilled before, 
And coldness, sadness, fear, had been 
Like cloud upon the sunny scene. 

Yet woman's love will always strive, 
And woman's faith through all things live, 
And beautiful the maiden's truth. 
And beautiful her trusting youtli ; 
Through all, through all, the turquoise ring 
A hope, a dream, a joy could bring; 
And still, if clear and bright its hue, 
Her faith was firm, her lover true ! 

Oh, gift of power ! it brought at last 
A bright, bright future for the past ! 
Oh, gift of power ! that cheek once more 
Wore the rich bloom that blushed of yore ! 
Oh, gift of power ! who wotild not sing — 
"For me, for me, the turquoise ring; 
For me, for me, when living faith 
Faints in a world of change and death; 
When sick with fear the heart may be, 
And sad, oh ! sad the memory ; 
When dimly, dimly, dimly glow 
The hopes, the trusts, that cling below — 
Then give me, give the turquoise ring, 
Or the pure faith, a better thing !" 



GIVE ME ARMOR OF PROOF. 

GiTE me armor of proof, I must ride to the plain ; 
Give me armor of proof, ere the trump sound again : 
To the halls of my childhood no more am I known. 
And the nettle must rise where the myrtle hath 
Till the conflict is over, the battle is past, [blown ! 
Give me armor of proof — I am true to the last I 

Give me armor of proof, bring me helmet and spear ; 
Away ! shall the warrior's cheek own a tear ? 
Bring the steel of Milan — 'tis the firmest and best, 
And bind o'er my bosom its closely-linked vest. 
Where the head of a loved one in fondness hath lain, 
Whose tears fell at parting like warm summer rain ! 

Give me armor of proof: I have torn from my heart 
Each soft tie and true that forbade me to part ; 
Bring the sword of Damascus — its blade cold and 

bright. 
That bends not in conflict, but gleams in the fight ; 
And stay — let me fasten yon scarf on my breast. 
Love's light pledge and true — I will answer the rest ! 
Give me armor of proof : shall the cry be in vain. 
When to life's sternest conflicts we rush forth 

amain? 
The knight clad in armor the battle may bide. 
But wo to the heedless when bendeth the tried. 
And wo to youth's morn, when we rode forth alone. 
To the conflict unguarded, its gladness hath flown ! 
Give us armor of proof — our hopes were all high ; 
But they passed like the meteor lights from the sky ; 
Our hearts' trust was firm, but Life's waves swept 

away 
Oneby one the frail ties which were shelter and stay; 
And true was our love, but its bonds broke in twain : 
Give me armor of proof, ere we ride forth again. 



294 



LUCY HOOPER. 



Give me armor of proof: we would turn from the 
Of a worl J that is fading to one that is true ; [view 
We would hft up eacli thought from this earth- 
shaded light, 
To the regions above, where there stealeth no blight ; 
And with Faith's chosen shie'd hy no dark tempests 

riven. 
We would gaze from earth's storms on the bright- 
ness of heaven. 



THE CAVALIER'S LAST HOaRS. 

A DinoE, a dirge for the young renown 

Of the recltless cavalier. 
Who passed in his youth and glory down 
To the grave without a fear, 
The smile on his lip, and the light in his eye — 
Oh ! say, was it thus that the brave should die t 

Midst the morning's pomp and flowers, 

By fierce and ruffian bands. 
In sight of his own ancestral towers. 
And his father's sweeping lands : 
Well that his mother lay still and low, 
Ere the cold clods pressed on her son's bright brow ! 

Oh, the tide of grief swelled high 

In his heart that dawn of day. 
As he looked his last on the glorious sky, 
And the scenes that round him lay ; 
But he trod the green earth in that moment of fear 
Witli a statelier bearing, the doomed cavalier ! 

For fearless his spirit then. 

And bravely he met his fate, 
Till the brows of those iron-hearted men 
Grew dark in their utter hate 
Of the gallant victim, who met his hour 
With a song on his lips for his lady's bower. 

The light of the festive hall. 

The bravest in battle array — 
Was it thus that the star of his fate should fall, 
Was it thus he should pass away ? 
A dirge, a dirge for his hopes of fame ; 
The grave will close o'er the noble name ! 

And the tide of life.flow on 

In its dull, deep current, as ever, 
Till every trace of his fate is gone 
From its dark and ceaseless river. 
But one may remember, oh young cavalier — 
Couldst thou gaze but once on the sleeper near ! 

That bright and fairy girl. 

With no shadow on her brow. 
Save the blue vein's trace and the golden curl — 
She is dreaming of thee now. 
She whispers thy name in her gentle rest ; 
But how will she wake from that slumber blest ! 

A dirge, a dirge for the young renown 

Of the reckless cavalier ! [around. 

He hath waved for the last his plumed bonnet 

And his parting words they hear, [cry 

" God save King Charles !" — a shriek : a woman's 

Hath mingled with the martial sounds that rent the 

earth and sky ! 



THE DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS.* 

Mother ! I bring thy gift ; 
Take from my hand the dreaded boon — I praj', 
Take it ; the still, pale sorrow of the face 
Hath left upon my soul its Uving trace, 

Never to pass away, 
Since from these lips one word of idle breath 
Blanched that calm face. Oh, mother, this is death ! 
What is it that I see 
From all the pure and settled features gleaming ? 
Reproach ! reproach ! My dreams are strange and 
Mother I hadst thou no pity on thy child 1 [wild. 

Lo ! a celestial smile seems softly beaming 
On the hushed lips ; my mother, canst thou brook 
Longer upon thy victim's face to look '! 
Alas ! at yester morn 
My heart was light, and to the viol's sound 
I gayly danced, while crowned with summer flowers, 
And swiftly by me sped the flying hours ; 

And all was joy around — 
Not death. Oh, mother 1 could I say thee nay 1 
Take from thy daughter's hand thy boon away ! 
Take it : my heart is sad. 
And the pure forehead hath an icy chill. 
I dare not touch it, for avenging Heaven 
Hath shuddering visions to my fancy given ; 

And the pale face appals me, cold and still, 
With the closed lips. Oh, tell me, could I know 
That the pale features of the dead were so 1 

I may not turn away [name 

From the charmed brow ; and I have heard his 
Even as a prophet hy his people spoken ; 
And that high brow in death bears seal and token 

Of one whose words were flame. 
Oh, holy teacher, couldst thou rise and live, 
Would not these hushed lips whisper, " I forgive !" , 
Away with lute and harp — ■ 
With the glad heart for ever, and the dance ! 
Never again shall tabrct sound for me. 
Oh, fearful mother, I have brought to thee 

The silent dead with his rebuldng glance. 
And the crushed heart of one to whom are given 
Wild dreams of judgment and oflended Heaven ! 



EVENING THOUGHTS. 

Thou quiet moon, above the hill-tops shining, 

How do I revel in thy glances bright. 
How does my heart, cured of its vain repining, 

Take note of those who wait and watch thy light: 
The student o'er his lonely volume bending. 

The pale enthusiast, joying in thy ray. 
And ever and anon his dim thoughts sending 

Up to the regions of eternal day ! 
Nor these alone — the pure and ladiant eyes 

Of youth and hope look up to thee with love ; 
Would it were thine, meek dweller of the skies, 

* Wiitten after seeing, among a collection of beautiful 
paintings, (copies from the old masters, recently sent to 
New York from Italy.) one reprfisenting the daughter of 
Herodias, bearing the head of John the'Baptist on a char- 
ger, and wi^aring upon her countenance an expression, not 
of triumph, as one might suppose, but rather of soft and 
sorrowful remorse, as she loolis upon the calm and beaii- 
tilul features of her victim. 



LUCY HOOPER. 



295 



To save from tears ! but no — too far above 
Tliis dim cold eai'th thou shinest, richly flinging 

Thy soft Hght down on all who watch thy beam. 
And to the heart of sorrow gentl}^ bringing 

Tile glories pictured in life's morning stream, 
As a loved presence back ; oh, shine to me, 
As to the voyagers on the faithless sea ! 
Joy's beacon light ! I know that trembling Care, 

Warned by thy coming, iiies him to repose, 
And on his pillow laid, serenely there 

Forgets his calling, that at day's dull close 
Meek age and rosy childhood sink to rest, 

And Passion lays her fever dreams aside. 
And the unquiet thought in every breast 

Ijoses its selfish fervor and its pride, [irigj 

With thoughts of thee — the while their vigil keep- 
The quiet stars hold watch o'er beauty sleeping ! 
But unto me, thou still and solemn light, [ti'ust 

What mayst thou bring ] high hope, unwavering 
In Him who, for the watches of the night, 

Ordained thy coming, and on things of dust 
Hath poured a gift of power — on wings to rise 

From the low earth and its surrounding gloom 
To higher spheres, till as the shaded skies 

Are hghted by thy glories, gentle moon, 
So are life's lonely hours and dark despair 
Cheered by the star of faith, the torch of prayer. 



LINES. 



Sat, have I left thee, wild but gentle lyre, 

That on the willow thou hast hung so long 1 
Oh, do not still my unbidden thoughts aspire 

From my heart's fount 1 flows not the gush of song, 
Though heavily upon the spirit's wing 
Lies earthly care — a dull, corroding tiling 1 
Must it be ever so, 
That m the shadow and the gloom my path 
Is destined 1 — shall the high heart always bow 1 

Father, may it not pass, this cup of wrath — 
Shall not at last the kindled flame burn free 
On my soul's altar, consecate to thee 1 

Say, in my bosom's urn 
Shall feelings glow for ever unexpressed, 
And lonely, fervent thoughts unheeded burn, 

And passion linger on, a hidden guest 1 
Hath the warm sky no token for my heart — 
In my green, early years shall Hope depart 1 
Peace at this quiet hour 
And holy thoughts be given. Let me soar 
From life's dim air and shadowy skies that lower 

Around me, and with thrilling heart adore 
Thy mercy, Father ! who can soothe the wild, 
Forgetful murmurings of thine erring child. 
Ay, by the bitter dreams, 
The fervor wasted ere my spirit's prime, 

The few brief sunny gleams 
Ripening the heart's wild flowers, that ere their time 
Blew brightly and were crushed — by all the tears 
That quenched the fiery thoughts of early years — 
Y"es ! by each phantom shade that memoiy brings. 
Voices whose tone my heart remembers yet, 
Names that no more shall tlirill — departed things 

That I would fain forget — ■ 
By the past weakness and the coming trust, 



Father, I lay my forehead in the dust, 
Meekly adoring — yielding up ray care 

To Thee, who through the stormy past hath tried 
A wayward mind, wdiich else had deemed too fair 

This fleeting world, and wandered far and wide 
Astray — and worshipped still, forgetting Thee, 
The one bright star of its idolatry. 

Nor be these thoughts in vain 

To aid me in this rude word's ruder strife. 
When a high soul doth struggle with its chain, 

And turn away in bitterness from hfe — 
Strengthen me, guide me, till in realms above 
I taste the untroubled waters of thy love. 



THE OLD DAYS WE EEMEMBEK. 

The old days we remember, 
How softly did they glide. 
While all untouched by worldly care 
We wandered side by side ! 
In those pleasant days, when the sun's last rays 

Just lingered on the hill, 
Or the moon's pale light with the coming night 
Shone o'er our pathway still. 
The old days we remember — 

Oh ! there 's nothing hke them now. 
The glow has faded from our hearts. 
The blossom from the bough ; 
In the chill of care, midst worldly air, 

Perchance we are colder grown, 
For stormy weather, since we roamed together. 
The hearts of both have known. 
The old days we remember — 
Oh ! clearer shone the sun. 
And every star looked brighter far 
Than they ever since have done ! 
On the very streams there lingered gleams 

Of light ne'er seen before. 
And the running brook a music took 
Our souls can hear no more. 
The old days we remember — 
Oh ! could we but go back 
To their quiet hours, and tread once inore 
Their bright, famihar track — 
Could we picture again what we pictured then. 

Of the sunny world that lay 
From the green hillside, and the waters wide. 
And our glad hearts far away ! 
The old days we remember, 

When we never dreamed of guile. 
Nor knew that the heart could be cold below, 
While the lip still wore its smile ! 
Oh, we may not forget, for those hours come yet ; 

They visit us in sleep. 
While far and wide, o'er life's changing tide, 
Our barks asunder keep. 
Still, still we must remember 

Life's first and brightest days, 
And a passing tribute render 
As we tread the busy maze ; 
A bitter sigh for the hours gone by, 

The dreams that might not last, 
The friends deemed true when our hopes were new, 
And the glorious visions past ! 



296 



LUCY HOOPER. 



LINES SUGGESTED BY A SCENE IN 
"MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK."* 

Beautiful child ; my lot is cast — 

Hope from my path hath for ever past ; 

Nothing the future can bring to me 

Hath ever been shadowed in dreams to thee ; 

The warp is woven, the arrow sped, 

My brain hath throbbed, but my heart is dead : 

Tell ye my tale, then, for love or gold ? — 

Yeai'S have passed by since that tale was told. 

God keep thee, child, with thine angel brow, 
Ever as sinless and bright as now ; 
Fresh as the roses of earliest spring. 
The fair, pure buds it is thine to bring. 
Would that the bloom of the soul could be, 
Beautiful spirit ! caught from thee ; 
Would that thy gift could anew impart 
The roses that bloom for the pure in heart. 

Beautiful child ! mayst thou never hear 
Tones of reproach in thy sorrowing ear ; 
Beautiful child ! may that cheek ne'er glow 
With a warmer tint from the heart below : 
Beautiful child ! mayst thou never bear 
The clinging weight of a cold despair — 
A heart, whose madness each hope hath crossed. 
Which hath thrown one die, and the stake hath lost. 

Beautiful child ! why shouldst thou stay t 

There is danger near thee — away, away ! 

Away ! in thy spotless purity : 

Nothing can here be a type of thee ; 

The very air, as it fans thy brow, 

May leave a tiace on its stainless snow : 

Lo I spirits of evil haunt the bowers. 

And the serpent glides from the trembling flowers. 

Beautiful child ! alas, to see 
A fount in the desert gush forth for thee, 
Where the queenly lilies should faintly gleam, 
And thy life flow on as its silent stream 
Afar from tile world of doubt and sin — 
This weary world thou must wander in : 
Such a home was once to my vision given — 
It comes to my heart as a type of heaven. 

Beautiful child ! let the, weary in heart 
Whisper thee once, ere again we part; 
Tell thee that want, and tell thee that pain 
Never can thrill in the throbbing brain. 
Till a sadder story that brain hath learned — 
Till a fiercer fire hath in it burned ; 
God keep thee sinless and undefiled. 
Though poor, and wretched, and sad, my child ! 

Beautiful being ! away, away ! 

The angels above be thy help and stay, 

Save thee from sorrow, and save thee from sm, 

Guard thee from danger without and within. 

Pure be thy spirit, and breathe for me 

A sigh or a prayer when thy heart is free ; 

In the crowded mart, by the lone wayside, 

Beautiful child ! be thy God thy guide. 

* " Nelly bore upon her arm the little basket with her 
flowers, and soin(?times stopped, with timid and modest 
looks, to ofler them at some gay carriage There 



LIFE AND DEATH. 

" La mort eat ]e seul dieu que J'osais iinploicr." 

Not unto thee, oh pale and radiant Death ! 
Not unto thee, though every hope be past. 
Through Life's first, sweetest stars may shine no 

more. 
Nor earth again one cherished dream restore, 
Or from the bright urn of the future cast 
Aught, aught of joy on me. 

Yet unto thee, oh monarch ! robed and crowned. 
And beautiful in all thy sad array, 
I bring no incense, though the heart be chill. 
And to the eyes, that tears alone may fill. 

Shines not as once the wonted light of day. 
Still upon another shrine my vows 

Shall all be duly paid ; and though thy voice 
Is full of music to the pining heart. 
And woos one to that pillow of calm rest. 
Where all Life's dull and restless thoughts depart, 
Still, not to thee, oh Death ! 

I pay my vows ; though now to me thy brow 
Seems crowned with roses of the summer prime, 
And to the aching sense thy voice would be, 
Oh Death ! oh Death ! of softest melody, 
And gentle ministries alone were thine. 
Still I implore thee not. 

But thou, oh Life ! oh Life ! the searching test 
Of the weak heart ! to thee, to thee I bow ; 
And if the fire upon the altar shrine 
Descend, and scathe each glowing hope of mine, 
Still may my heart, as now. 
Turn not from that di'ead test. 

But let me pay my vows to thee, oh Life ! 
And let me hope that from that glowing fire 
There yet maj' be redeemed a gold more pure 
And bright, and eagle thoughts to mount and soar 

Their flight the higher. 
Released from earthly hope or earthly fear. 

This, this, oh Life ! be mine. 
Let others strive thy glowing wreaths to bind — 
Let others seek thy false and dazzling gleams : 
For me their light went out on early streams, 
And faded were thy roses in my grasp. 
No more, no more to bloom. 

Yet as the stars, the holy stars of night. 

Shine out when all is dark. 
So would I, cheered by hopes more purely bright. 
Tread still the thorny path whose close is light, 
If, but at last, the tossed and weary bark 
Gains the sure haven of her final rest. 

was but one lady who seemed to understand the child, 
and she was one who sat alone in a handsome carriage, 
while two young men in dashing clothes, who had just 
dismounted from it, talked and laughed loudly at a little 
distance, appearing to forget her quite. There were many 
ladies all around, but they turned their backs, or looked 
another way, or at the two young men, (not unfavorably 
at them,) and left her to herself. She motioned away a 
gipsy-woman, urgent to tell her fortune, saying, that it 
was told already, and had been for some years, but called 
the child toward her, and taking her flowers, put money 
into her trembling hand, and bade her go home, and keep 
at home, for God's sake " 



LUCY HOOPER. 



297 



LEGENDS OF FLOWERS.* 

Oh, gorgeous tales in days of olil 

Were linked with opening flowers, 
As if in their fairy urns of gold 

Beat human hearts like ours ; 
The nuns in their cloister, sad and pale, 

As they watched soft buds expand. 
On their glowing petals traced a tale 

Or legend of holy land. 
Brightly to them did thy snowy leaves 

For the sainted Maiy shine. 
As they twined for her forehead vestal wreaths 

Of thy white buds, cardamine ! 

The crocus shone, when the fields were bare. 

With a gay, rejoicing smile ; 
But the hearts that answered Love's tender prayer 

Grew brightened with joy the while. 
Of the coming spring and the summer's light. 

To others that flower might say. 
But the lover welcomed the herald bright 

Of the glad St. Valentine's day. 
The crocus was hailed as a happy flower, 

And the holy saint that day 
Poured out on the earth their golden shower 

To light his votaries' way. 

On the day of St. George, the brave St. George, 

To meiTy England dear. 
By field and by fell; and by mountain gorge, 

Shone hyacinths blue and clear : 
Lovely and prized was their purple light, 

And 'twas said in ancient story. 
That their fairy bells rung out at night 

A peal to old England's glory ; 
And sages read in the azure hue 

Of the flowers so widely known. 
That by white sail spread over ocean's blue. 

Should the empire's right be shown. 

And thou of faithful memory, 

St. John, thou " shining light," 
Beams not a burning torch for thee, 

The scarlet lychnis bright ? 
While holy Mary, at thy shrine. 

Another pure flower blooms. 
Welcome to thee with news divine, 

The lily's faint perfumes ; 
Proudly its stately head it rears, 

Arrayed in virgin white — 
So Truth, amid a world of tears, 

Doth shine with vestal light 

And thou, whose opening buds were shown, 

A Savior's cross beside, 
We hail thee, passion flower alone, 

Sacred to Christ, who died. 
No image of a mortal love, 

May thy bright blossoms be 
Linked with a passion far above — 

A Savior's agony. 

* These lines refer to some of the old fanciful ideas at- 
tached to the opening of flowers. In the Romish church 
Buch events were carefully noted down, and every flower 
blossoming on a saint's day was considered to bloom in 
honor of that saint. 



All other flowers are pale and dim, 

All other gifts are loss, 
We twine thy matchless buds for him 

Who died on holy cross. 



OSCEOLA. 

Not on the battle-plain. 
As when thy thousand warriors joyed to meet thee. 

Sounding the fierce war-cry. 

Leading them forth to die : 
Not thus — not thus we greet thee. 

But in a hostile camp, 

Lonely amid thy foes — 
Thine arrows spent. 
Thy brow unbent, 
Yet wearing record of thy people's woes. 

Chief ! for thy memories now. 
While the tall palm against this quiet sky 

Her branches waves. 

And the soft river laves 
The green and flower-crowned banks it wanders by ; 

While in this golden sun 
The burnished rifle gleameth with strange light. 

And sword and spear 

Rest harmless here. 
Yet flash with startling radiance on the sight ; 

\^^ake they thy glance of scorn, 
Thou of the folded arms and aspect stern 1 

Thou of the soft, deep tone,* 

For whose rich music gone. 
Kindred and tribe full soon may vainly yearn ! 

Wo for the trusting hour ! 
Oh, kingly stag, no hand hath brought thee down : 

'T was with a patriot's heart. 

Where fear usurped no part. 
Thou camest, a noble offering — and alone ! 

For vain yon army's might. 

While for thy band the wide plain owned a tree. 

And the wild vine's tangled shoots 

On the gnarled oak's mossy roots 

Their trysting-place might be. 

Wo for thy hapless fate ! 
Wo for thine evil times and lot, brave chief! 

Thy sadly-closing story. 

Thy quickly-vanished glory, 
Thy high but hopeless struggle, brave and brief. 

Wo for the bitter stain 
That fi-om our country's banner may not part ! 

Wo for the captive — wo ! 

For bitter pains and slow 
Are his who dieth of the fevered heart ! 

Oh, in that spirit-land. 

Where never yet the oppressor's foot hath passed ; 
Chief ! by those sparkling streams 
Whose beauty mocks our dreams, 

May that high heart have won its rest at last ! 

* Osceola was remarkable for a soft and fiutelike voice. 
The above poem was written upon seeing a picture of 
him by Captain Vinton, U. S. A., representing him as he 
appeared in the American camp. 



SARAH EDGARTON MAYO. 



Miss Sarah C. Edgaeton, who in 1S46 
became the wife of the Rev. A. D. Mayo, 
minister of the Universalist Church in Glou- 
cester, Massachusetts, was horn in Shirley, 
in that state, in 1819. When about seven- 
teen years of age she began to write for the 
literary and religious journals, and in 183S 
she edited the first volume of The Rose of 
Sharon, an annual, of which nine other vol- 
umes were afterward issued under her direc- 
tion. She also edited for several years The 
Ladies' Repository, a monthly magazine of 
religion and letters, published in Boston. Be- 



sides her numerous contributions to The New- 
Yorker, The New World, The Tribune, The 
Knickerbocker, and other periodicals, she pub- 
lished, in the ten years from 1838 to 1 848, 
The Palfreys, Ellen CliflFord or the Genius 
of Reform, The Poetry of Woman, Spring 
Flowers, Memoir and Poems of Mrs. Julia 
H.Scott, The Flower Vase, Fables of Flora, 
and The Floral Fortune-Teller. These are 
small volumes, and two or three of them con- 
sist in part of extracts ; but they are all illus- 
trative of a delicate apprehension of beauty 
and truth. She died on the ninth of July, 1848. 



THE SUPREMACY OF GOD. 

Tan clouds broke solemnly apart, and, mass 
By mass, their lieavy darkness bore away 
With sullen mutterings, leaving mountain-pass 
And rocky defile open to the day. 
The pinnacles of Zion glittering lay 
In the rich splendor of Jehovah's light. 
Which, pouring down with a meridian sway. 
Bathed mouldering tower and barricaded height 

In floods of dazzling rays, bewiklering to the sight ! 
God slione upon the nations. In the West 
The owl-like Druid saw the brightening rays. 
And muflhng his gray robes across his breast. 
Strode Uke a phanlom from the coming blaze. 
Old Odin, throned anrid the polar haze. 
Heard the shrill cry of Vala on the blast, 
And glancing southward with a wild amaze. 
Saw God's bright banner o'er the nations cast, 

Then to his dim old halls retreated far and fast. 
But nearer yet, and quivering in the blaze 
That wrapped OlympuS with a shroud of glory. 
Great Jove rose up, the pride of Rome's proud days. 
His awful head with centuries grown hoary, 
His sceptre reeking and his mantle gory ! 
Great Jove, the dread of each inferior god, 
Renowned in song, immortalized in story. 
No longer shook Olympus with his nod, [trod. 

But shivering like a ghost, down, down to hades 
Egyptian Isis, from the mystic rites 
Of her voluptuous priesthood shrank in awe. 
Mazed by the splendor throned on Zion's heights. 
More dreadful than the flame which Israel saw 
Break forth from Sinai when God gave the law ! 
To her more dreadful, for beneath its sway 
She saw, with prophet gaze, how soon her power 
Must, like the brooding night-haze, melt away. 
And leave her where the mists of ages lower — 

The grim ghosts of a dream mocked in the noon- 
tide hour. 



And gentler deities — the spirits bright 
That haunted mountain glen and woodland shade. 
That watched o'ersleeping shepherds thro' the night 
And blest at early dawn the bright-eyed maid — 
The nymphs and dryads of tile fount and glade, 
The best divinities of home and hearth. 
These, with an exile footstep, slowly strayed. 
And lingered by each haunt of olden mirth. 

Till their bright forms grew dim, and vanished from 
the earth. 
Now GoD is God ! The Alpine summit rings 
With the loud echoes of Jehovah's praise ; 
And from the valley where the cow-boy sings. 
Go up to God alone his votive lays. 
To him the mariner at midnight prays ; 
To him uplifts the yearnings of his soul ; 
And where the day-beam on the snow-peak plays, 
And where the thunders o'er the desert roll. 

His praise goes swelhng up, and rings from pole 
to pole. 

His Spirit animates the lowliest flower. 
And nerves the sinews of the loftiest sphere, 
In every globule of the falling shower. 
In each transition of the varied year, 
Its life, and light, and wondrous power appear ; 
It burns all-glorious in the noonday sun, 
And from the moonbeams forth serenely clear; 
Or, when the day is o'er, and eve begun. 
Flings forth the radiant flag no other god hath won. 

All hail, Jehovah ! Hail, supremest God ! 
Where'er the whirlwind stalks upon the seas, 
Where'er the giant thunderbolt hath trod. 
Or turned a furrow for the summer breeze. 
Where liquid cities round Spitzbergen freeze. 
And lift their ice-spires to the electric light. 
Or soft Italian skies and flowering trees 
Their balmy odors and bright hues unite — 
There art thou. Loan of love, unrivalled in thy 
might. 



SARAH E. MAYO. 



299 



Praise, praise to thee from every breathing thing, 
And from tlie temples of adoring hearts. 
Science to thee her sky-reaped fruits shall hring, 
And Commerce rear thine altars in her marts. 
Thou shalt be worshipped of the glorious Arts, 
And sought by Wisdom in her dim retreat ; 
The student, brooding o'er his mystic charts, 
Shall mark the track of thy starsandalled feet, [seat. 
Till, through the zodiac traced, it mounts thy mercy. 

Praise,praise to thee from peaceful home and hearth, 
From hearts of humble hope and meek desire ; 
Praise from the lowly and the high of earth, 
From palace-hall and frugal cottage-fire. 
We can not lift our spirit-yearnings higher. 
Nor speed them upward to a loftier goal : 
Then let us each with fervent thoughts aspire 
To cast aside the chain of earth's control, [soul. 
And stand in God's own light, communers with God's 



THE LAST LAY. 

'Tis the last touch — the last ! and never more 

By the low-singing stream, or violet dell. 
Never beside the blue pond's grassy shore. 

Nor in the woodlands where the fountains swell, 
Oh, never more shall this wild haq) resound 

To the light touches of impulsive Thought ! 
No longer, echoed on the winds around. 

Shall float those strains with human passion fraught; 
Never, oh, never more ! 
'Tis the last touch ! Oh, mighty Thought, return 

To thy deep, hidden fountains, and draw thence 
M'ordsthatthro' all the heart'slonedepthsshall burn; 

Words, that inwrought with hope and love intense. 
Shall thrill and shake the soul, as God's own voice 

Shakes the high heavens and thrills the silent earth. 
Bring forth proud words of triumph, and rejoice 

That thy dear gift of song a holier birth 

Shall find, when this is o'er ! 
Too much in earlier days, departing soul. 

Thy song hath been of weakness and of tears ; 
Too much it yielded to the wild control 

Of Love's unuttered dreams and shadowy fears ; 
And yet some strains of triumph have been heard. 

Some words of faith and hope that reached high 
As the low warble of the summer bird, [Heaven ; 

Singing away the hours of golden even. 

Blends with the cascade's roar ! 
Let it be loftier now. ! a strain to cleave 

The vaulted arch above ; a hymn of hope. 
Of joy, of deathless faith, for those who grieve ; 

High words of trust to fearful hearts that grope 
Through clouds and darkness to a midnight tomb. 

Father of Love, thine energy impart 
To a frail spirit hovering o'er its doom ! 

Nerve with o'ermasteriug faith this weary heart 
Thy mysteries to explore. 
If I have suffered in the mournful past ; 

If withered hopes were on my spirit laid ; 
If love, the beautiful, the bright, were cast 

Along my pathway but to droop and fade ; 
If the chill shadows of the grave were hung 

In life's young morning o'er my sunny way — 
I thank thee, my God, that I have clung 



To those eternal things that ne'er decay. 

E'en to thy love and truth ! 

Now on the threshold of the grave I stand. 
One lingering look alone cast back to earth ; 

One lingering look to that beloved land 

Where human feeling had its tearful birth ; 
There stand the loved, with earnest eyes and words, 

Calling me back to life's sweet gushing streams ; 
They stand amid the flowers and singing birds, 

Andwherethe fountain o'er the bright moss gleams, 
All flushed with buoyant youth. 
They woo me back. I see their soft eyes melt 

With a beseeching love that speaks in tears ; 
Deeply their sorrowing kindjiess have I felt, 

And hid my pangs, that I might soothe their fears. 
But now the seal is set — they can not save; 

In vain they hover round this wasting frame : 
Let me rest, loved ones, in the peaceful grave. 

And leave to eai'th the little it may claim ; 
It can not claim the soul ! 
Nay, gentle friends, earth can not claim the soul ! 

Upward and onward its bold flight shall be ; 
The bosom of Eternal Love its goal. 

And light its crown, and bliss its destin3\ 
As the bright meteor darts along the sky. 

Leaving a trail of beauty on its way. 
So, winged with energy that can not die. 

My soul shall reach the gates of endless day, 
And bid them backward roll. 
In vain, O Death, thine iron grasp is set 

On nerves that quiver with delirious pain ; 
Claim not thy triumph o'er the spirit yet. 

For thou shalt die, but that shalt live again. 
And thou, Sorrow, that with whetted beak 

Hast torn the fibres of a fervent heart. 
Thy final doom is not for me to speak. 

Yet thou, too, from thy carnage must depart, 
For God recalls his own. 
His OWN ! — Father, mid the budding flowers 

And glittering dews of life's unclouded morn. 
Where there is thrilling music in the hours 

Of gentle hopes and young affections born. 
Through all its wanderings from thy holy throne. 

Through all its loiterings mid the haunts of Joy, 
Hath my frail spirit been indeed thine own. 

By ties that Time nor Death can e'er destroy — 
Thine, Father, thine alone ! 
Shall it not still be thine, more nobly thine. 

When from the ruins of young Hope it soars. 
And, entering into life and peace divine. 

Feels the full worth of what it now deplores ? 
No sorrows there shall stain its gushing springs ; 

No human frailties cloud its joyous way; 
The bird that soars on renovated wings. 

And bathes its crest where dawns the golden day. 
Shall be less free and pure. 
And more than this : with vision all serene, 

Undimmed by tears, and bounded not by clouds. 
With naught thy goodness and its gaze between. 

And where no mystery thy purpose shrouds. 
The soul, the glorious soul, in works of love. 

Shall seek, and only seek, to do thy will; 
Highborn and holy shall its eflSjrts prove. 

Thy bright designs and glory to fulfil, 

While thou and thine endure ! 



300 



SARAH E. MAYO. 



THE BEGGAR'S DEATH-SCENE. 

..... OiTE parting glance the weary day-god throws ; 
See how along the mountain ridge it glows, 
Shoots through the forest aisles, transmutes the rills, 
And kindles up the old rock-crested hills ! 
It falls upon a peaceful woodland scene — 
It lights the moaning brook and banks of green, 
Streams o'er the beggar's long, loose, silvery hair, 
Who, dying, lies upon the greensward there ! 

All day in weakness, weariness, and pain, 
The old man 'neath those drooping boughs hath lain; 
The birds above him singing, and the breeze 
Rustling the abundant foliage of the trees ; 
The wild-flowers o'er him bending, and the air 
Stroking with gentle touch his long white hair ; 
The bees around him murmuring, and the stream 
Mingling its music with his dying dream 

A vision blessed him ! Through his silver hair 
He felt the touch of fingers, soft and fair, 
And o'er him flowed the glory of an eye 
Outsl\ining all the blueness of the sky. 
" Sweet, sainted One ! and dost thou love me yet 1 
I knew, I knew thou couldst not quite forget ! 
I knew, I knew that thou wouldst come at last, 
To kiss my lips and tell me all is past !" 

A glow of transport lit his closing eye ; 
He raised his arms exulting toward the sky ; 
A rosy tint like morning's earliest streak 
Flushed in celestial softness o'er his cheek. 
Then paled away ; the sunbeam, too, that shone 
Upon his reverend head, had softly gone. 
Then stooped the Vision, clasped him to her breast. 
And bore his spirit up to endless rest 



TYPES OF HEAVEN. 

Why love I the lily-bell 
Swinging in the scented dell ? 
Why love I the wood-notes wild. 
Where the sun hath faintly smiled 1 
Daises, in their beds secure, 
Gazing out so meeJi and pure 1 

Why love I the evening dew 
In the violet's bell of blue ? 
Why love I the vesper star, 
Trembling in its shrine afar ] 
Why love I the summer night 
Softly weeping drops of light 7 

Why to me do woodland springs 
Whisper sweet and holy things? 
Why does every bed of moss 
Tell me of my Savior's cross 1 
Why in every dimpled wave 
Smiles the light from o'er the grave 1 

Why do rainbows, seen at even, 
Seem the glorious paths to heaven ? 
Why are gushing streamlets fraught 
With the notes from angels caught ? 
Can ye tell me why the wind 
Bringeth seraphs to my mind 1 



Is it not that faith hath bound 
Beauties of all form and sound 
To the dreams that have been given 
Of the holy things of heaven 1 
Are they not bright links that bind 
Sinful souls to Sinless Mind ? 

From the lowly violet sod, 
Links are lengthened unto God. 
All of holy — stainless — sweet — 
That on earth we hear or meet, 
Are but types of that pure love 
Brightly realized above. 



THE SHADOW-CHILD. 

Whence came this little phantom 

That flits about my room — 
That's here from early morning 

Until the twilight gloom 1 
For ever dancing, dancing. 

She haunts the wall and floor, 
And frohcs in the sunshine 

Around the open door. 
The ceiling by the table 

She makes her choice retreat, 
For there a little human girl 
• Is wont to have her seat. 
They take a dance together — 

A crazy little jig ; 
And sure two baby witches 

Ne'er ran so wild a rig ! 

They pat their hands together 

With frantic jumps and springs, 
Until you almost fancy 

You catch the gleam of wings. 
Shrill shrieks the human baby 

In the madness of delight. 
And back return loud echoes 

From the little shadow sprite. 

At morning by my bedside 

When first the birdies sing, 
Up starts the little phantom 

With a merry laugh and spring. 
She woos me from my pillow 

With her little coaxing arms ; 
I go where'er she beckons — 

A victim to her charms. 

At night I still am haunted 

By glimpses of her face ; 
Her features on my pillow 

By moonlight I can trace. 
Whence came this shadow-baby 

That haunts my heart and home ? 
What kindly hand hath sent her. 

And wherefore hath she come 1 

Long be her dancing image 

Our guest by night and day. 
For lonely were our dwelling 

If she were now away. 
Far happier hath our home been. 

More blest than e'er before, 
Since first that little shadow 

Came gliding through our door. 



1 

SARAH 


"!. MAYO. 301 


UDOLLO. 


Gushed wildly from that lyre ! 




And as Udollo's music died 


So sweet the fount of Thura sings, 


Amid the columned aisles away. 


'T is said below a maid tliere is, 


That wondrous chord swelled far and wide 


Wlio strilies a lyre of silver strings 


Its sweet and ravishing lay. 


To spirit symphonies. 


Still grew, at last, the trembling string — ■ 


A youth once sought that fountain's side — 


Its wandering echoes back returned, 


Udollo, of the golden hair ; 


And round the lone chord gathering 


He cast a garland in the tide. 


In visible glory burned. 


And thus invoked the maiden there : 


But in Udollo's soul died not 


" Oh, maid of Thura ! fi'om thy halls 


The echoes of the golden sb-ain : 


Of gleaming crystal deign to rise ! 


A love — a wo — he knew not what, 


The golden-haired Udollo calls, 


Flamed up within his brain ; 


And yearns to gaze within thine eyes; 


But never more his hand could wake. 


Fain would he touch that magic lyre 


By roving mid its sister wires, 


Whose echoes he has heard above. 


The string whose symphony could shake 


And kindle every dulcet wire 


His spirit to its central fires. 


With an adoring, burning love. 


But sometimes when, all calm above. 


Come, maid of Thura, from thy halls ; 


The moon bent o'er its gleaming strings. 


The golden-haired Udollo calls !" 


A strain of soft, entrancing love 


" Youth of the flaming, lucent eye, 


Waved o'er him, like a seraph's wings ; 


Youth of the lily hand and brow, 


And sometimes when the midnight gloom 


Udollo ! I have heard thy cry ; 


Allowed no wandering ray of light, 


I rise before thee now !" 


A deep, low music filled the room. 




And almost flamed upon his sight. 


" Oh, maid with eyes of river-blue. 


With amber tresses dropped with gold. 


And for this rare and fitful strain 


With foam-white bosom veiled from view 


He waited with intense desire ; 


Too closely by the rambow's fold, 


There centred, in delirious pain, 


Oh, maid of Thura ! let my hand 


His spirit's all-devouring fire. 


Receive from thine the silver lyre ; 


As round one glowing point on high, 


Athwart thy white arm. Iris-spanned, 


We sometimes mark the electric light, 


I see one glittering, trembling wire ! 


From the whole bosom of the sky. 


That trembling wire I would invoke. 


In one bright, flaming crown unite, 


Ere to thy touch it cease to quiver ; 


So round that inward, fixed desire, 


The strain by thy sweet fingers woke 


Concentred all Udollo's life ; 


I would prolong for ever !" 


His dark eye glowed like molten fire. 




Beneath the fevered strife. 


" Udollo, heed ! The mortal hand 




That o'er that lone chord dare to stray, 


One night, when long the lyre had slept. 


Shall light a flaming, quenchless brand. 


Udollo's passion, like a sea 


To burn his very heart away. 


Of red-hot lava, madly swept 


Yet take the lyre ! and I thy flowers 


His soul on to its destiny. 


Will wear upon my heart for ever ; 


In the deep blackness of that hour 


That heart henceforth through long, lone hours, 


When spectres walk, he seized the lyre. 


In silent wo must bleed and quiver ! 


And with a seraph's tuneful power 


Enough if thou, oh, beauteous love. 


Awoke the tuneful wire ! 


Shalt find deUght in Thura's lyre ; 


Oh, Thura's maid I where wert thou then. 


Thy hand mid all its strings may rove, 


When mortal hand presumed to strike 


But ah ! wake not the fatal wire !" 


The chords that only gods, not men, 


The youth, whose eye with rapture glowed. 


Have power to waken as they like 1 


Quick seized the lyre from Thura's hand ; 


A fire shot through Udollo's frame 


How silent at that moment flowed 


As shoots the lightning's forked dart ; 


The fountain o'er the listening sand ! 


It lit a hot and smothered flame 


Upon his coal-black steed he leaped. 


Within his deepest heart. 


Struck gayly through the ringing wood. 


He felt it in its slow, sure path. 


And, as he went, he boldly swept 


Consume his quivering nerves away ; 


His lyre to every passing mood. 


Oh, could he but have checked its wrath. 


But hark ! A low, sweet symphony 


Or ceased that fearful strain to play 1 


Rose softly from the charmed wire ; 


His fingers, cleaving to the wire. 


Unlike all mortal harmony. 


Had lost communion with his will ; 


Unlike all human fire ! 


Within him burnt the immortal fire. 


Hope, eager hope — love, burning love — 


The heart, the life destroyer still ! 


Desire, the pure, the high desire — 


Days, weeks, and months, whirled on and on; 


And joy, and all the thoughts that move, 


No hope by day, nor rest by night ; 



303 SARAH 


C. MAYO. 


Only the same wild, frantic tone, 


It was not all a dream, Johnny, 


Increasing in its woful might. 


The love we thought of then, 


Intensely still, like lonely stars 


For it hath been our life and light 


Far off in some black crypt of sky, 


For threescore years and ten. 


Like Sirius, or like fiery Mars, 


But ah ! we dared not speak it. 


Glowed wild UdoUo's eye. 


Though it lit our checks and eyes ; 


His form to shadowy hue and line 


So we talked about the news, Johnny, 


Slow shrank and faded, day by day ; 


The weather, and the skies. 


He seemed like some corroded shrine, 


At last I said, " Good night, Johnny !" 


Eaten by liquid fire away. 


And turned to cross the bridge. 


At last, in utter wreck and wo. 


Still holding in my trembling hand 


Back to the fountain's brink he crept ; 


The pretty wreath of sedge. 


His golden hair, now white as snow. 


But you came on behind, Johnny, 


Far down his bosom swept. 


And drew my arm in yours. 


Silent the clouded waters flowed ; 


And said, " You must not go alone 
Across the barren moors." 


The silver sand was washed away ; 
No lily on its borders blowed ; 


Oh, had they been all flowers, Johnny, 


In lonely gloom it lay. 


And full of singing birds. 
They could not have seemed fairer 


" Oh, maid of Thura ! hear my cry ; 


Than when listening to those words ! 


Back to thy hands thy lyre I bring : 


The new moon shone above, Johnny, 


Take it, oh, take it, ere I die, 


The sun was nearly set ; 


For heart and soul are perishing 1" 


The grass that crisped beneath our feet 


No form uprose, no murmur stole 


The dew had slightly wet : 


Responsive from the gloomy tide ; 


One robin, late abroad, Johnny, 


Hoarsely he heard the waters roll ; 


Was winging to its nest ; 


Faintly the low winds sighed. 


I seem to see it now, Johnny, 


He sank upon the fountain's brink ; 


The sunshine on its breast. 


His hand fell listless on the wave ; 


You put your arm around me, 


He heard the lyre, slow bubbling, sink 


You clasped my hand in yours. 


Deep in its liquid grave. 


You said, " So let me guard you 


The fire went out within his breast ; 


Across these lonely moors." 


The tremor of his nerves was still ; 


At length we reached the field, Johnny, 


As peacefully he sank to rest 


In sight of father's door ; 


As a tired infant will. 


We felt that we must part there ; 


A radiant bow of sun and dew, 


Our eyes were brimming o'er; 
You saw the tears in mine, Johnny, 


Of blended vapors, white and red. 


I saw the tears in yours ; 


Up from the fountain's bosom flew, 


" You 've been a faithful guard, Johnny," 


And hung its beauty o'er his head. 


I said, " across the moors." 


And from the waves a strain uprose, 

Delicious as an angel's song ; 
And this the burden at its close : 


Then you broke forth in a gush, Johnny, 
Of pure and honest love. 


" How sweet such dreamless, deep repose. 
To him who sins and suft'ers long !" 


While the moon looked down upon you 

From her holy throne above. 
And you said, " We need a guide, Ellen, 




To lead us o'er life's moors ; 




CROSSING THE MOOR. 


I've chosen you for mine, Ellen, 




Oh, would that I were yours !" 


I AM thinking of the glen, Johnny, 
And the little gushing brook — 


We parted with a kiss, Johnny, 
The first, but not the last ; 


Of the birds upon the hazel copse. 
And violets m the nook. 


I feel the rapture of it, yet. 

Though threescore years have passed ; 


I am thinking how we met, Johnny, 

Upon the little bridge : 
You had a garland on your arm 


And you kissed my golden curls, Johnny, 

That now are silvery gray. 
And whispered, " We are one, Ellen, 

Until our dying day !" 


Of flag-flowers and of sedge. 


You placed it in my hand, Johnny, 


That dying day is near, Johnny, 


And held my hand in yours ; 


But we are not dismayed ; 


You only thought of that, Johnny, 


We have but one dark moor to cross. 


But tallied about the flowers. 


Vi'e need we be afraid ! 


We lingered long alone, Johnny, 


We've had a hard life's row, Johnny, 


.\bove that shaded stream ; 


But our heavenly rest is sure ; 


We stood as though we were entranced 


And sweet the love that waits us there, 


In some delicious dream. 


When we have crossed the moor ! 



SARAH S. JACOBS. 



Miss Jacobs is a natiye of Rhode Island, 
and is a daughter of the late Rev. Bela Ja- 
cobs, a prominent Baptist clergyman. She 
has recently resided at Cambridgeport, in 
Massachusetts. Her poems are serious and 



fanciful, and evince cultivation and taste. 
Benedetta is one of her happiest composi- 
tions, and it is characteristic of her most 
usual tone and manner. There is no collec- 
tion of her writings. 



THE CHANGELESS WORLD. 

" It bath been already of old time." — Solomon. 

I Momjf that this world changes not ; that still 

Its beauty and its sorrows are the same ; 
Ever the torrent seems to wear the hill, 

And the sun dries the torrent. But I came — 
The hill was there, nor was the torrent tame, 
But, sparkling cooler down the mountain-side, 

For that it scorned tlie great sun's thirsty flame, 
Its eager task continually it plied, 
While swelled the lofty hill in unabated pride. 
The forest-trees are transient things and trail ; 

(So the book told me, ere I closed the page ;) 
Last year the willow-leaves were wan and pale : 

I 'II make to their last place a pilgi'image, 

And changed, dead trees shall read a lesson sage 
Of change and death. No paler than before 

I found the willow-leaves, nor sign of age 
Within the woods ; immortal green they wore. 
And the strong, mighty roots the giant trunks up- 
bore. 
The rock endureth with its mantle mossy. 

Nature's soft velvet for the poor man's tread ; 
The grass abideth tapering and glossy. 

And from the butterfly you thought was dead, 

Lo ! not a grain of shining dust is fled. 
But clouds, and snows, and subtle harmonies. 

And western winds with dewy perfumes fed. 
And shadows and their twins, realities. 
And fickle human hearts — sure there is change in 

these. 
The gentle air fanned Sappho's fevered cheek. 

That seems its virgin kiss to breathe on mine ; 
That cloud is not new-born : its roseate streak 

Decked a sweet sunset in fair Palestine, 

When Abram's Sarah 'neath the shadovidng pine. 
Watching its glories, showed them to her lord. 

That night the beaming messengers divine 
Came down, and Heaven sat at earthly board. 
Gladdening the patriarch's heart with high prophetic 

word. 
Wears not the sky the vaulted majesty 

That greatly circled greater Homer's brow ? 
And the soft murmurs of the sleepy sea 

Soolhed Dante's soul of storms. The heavens 
allow 



No novel splendors. Every star that now 
Looks nuracles of beauty, in intense 

-And steely radiance, saw the Chaldee bow ; 
The princely, poet heart, whose finer sense 
Thrilled nightly the Pleiades' sweet influence. 

But sun, and cloud, river, and tree, and stream. 

Rock, wind, and mountain — earth, and sea, and 
Ephemeral things, and perishable seem [heaven. 

To the strong human nature God has given. 

The breast that fired man first — the wondrous 
leaven 
That makes " red clay" lord of its kindred earth, 

Immortal in its essence, lasteth even 
As He lasts whose great impulse sent it forth : 
There is no change in man since the first man had 
birth. 

For youthful lovers still in paradise 

WaVs. hand in hand, like those of early day ; 
Till the stern-missioned angel shall arise. 

The vision and the music pass away. 

The heart's short summer gone, no efibrt may 
In festive pomp of dewy Iruit and flowers 

The frost-struck and the faded world array. 
Self-exiled are we, too, from Eden's bowers. 
And Adam's wanderings and Eve's woes are 
ours. 

Still for her infant children Rachel weeps ; 

Still sighs sad Ruth " amid the alien com ;" 
Still Aiah's daughter generous vigils keeps ; 

The sire still hails his prodigal's return ; 

Still Peter's soul with penitence is torn. 
Humanity has lost no grief nor joy : 

Partings are painful now as on the mom 
When Hector bade, upon the walls of Troy, 
Andromache farewell, and kissed his blooming 
boy. 

To meet is Hiss, as when, beside old Nile, 

Joseph his soul of tenderness outpoured ; 
Still Stephen dies with calm, forgiving smile ; 

Still radiant Esther braves her tyrant lord. 

No change, no change ! Upon the sel f-same chord 
Life's overture is played ; life's pattern wrought 

In the same figures — wearisome, abhoiTed. 

"Butwe shall allbcchang'd." Suchsoundslcaught. 

And blessed both Tarsus and Damascus in my 

thought. 

30.-J 



304 



SARAH S. JACOBS. 



BENBDETTA. 

Br an old fountain once at day's decline 
We stood. The winged breezes made 

Short flights melodious through the lowering vine, 
The lindens flung a golden, glimmering shade. 

And the old fountain played. 

I a stern stranger — a sweet maiden she, 

And beautiful as her own Italy. 

At length she smiled ; her smile the silence broke. 

And my heart finding language, thus it spoke : 

" Whenever Benedetta moves, 

Motion then all Nature loves ; 
When Benedetta is at rest. 

Quietness appeareth best. 
She makes me dream of pleasant things, 

Of the young corn growing; 
Of butterflies' transparent wings 

In the sunbeams rowing ; 
Of the summer dawn 

Into daylight sliding; 
Of Dian's favoiite fawn 

Among laurels hiding; 
Of a movement in the tops 

Of the most impulsive trees; 
Of cool, glittering drops 

God's gracious rainbow sees ; 
Of pale moons ; of saints 

Chanting anthems holy ; 
Of a eloud that faints 

In evening slowly ; 
Of a bird's song in a grove , 

Of a rosebud's love ; 
Of a lily's stem and leaf; 

Of dew-silvered meadows; 
Of a child's first grief; 

Of soft-floating shadows ; 
Of the violet's breath 

To the moist wind given ; 
Of early death 

And heaven." 
I ceased : the maiden did not stir, 

Nor speak, nor raise her bended head ; 
And the green vines enfohaged her, 

And the old fountain played. 
Then fi-om the churcli beyond the trees 
Chimed the bells to evening prayer : 
Fervent the devotions were 
Of Benedetta on her knees ; 
And when her prayer was over, 
A most spiritual air 

Her whole form invested, 
As if God did love her. 

And his smile still rested 
On her white robe and flesh, 
So innocent and fresh — 
Touching wliere'er it fell 
With a glory visible. 

She smiled, and crossed horself, and smiled again 
Upon the heretic's sincere " Amen !" 
" Buona notte," soft she said or sung — 
It was the same on that sweet southern tongue — 
And passed. I blessed the faultless face. 
All in composed gentleness aiTayed ; 



Then took farewell of the secluded place : 

And the tall lindens flung a glimmering shade, 
And the old fountain played. 

And this was spring. In the autumnal weather, 
One golden afternoon I wandered thither ; 
And to the vineyards, as I passed along. 
Murmured this fragment of a broken song : 
" I know a peasant girl serene — 

What though her home doth lowly lie ! 
The woods do homage to their queen, 
The streams flow reverently nigh 
Benedetta, Benedetta I 

" Her eyes the deep, delicious blue 
The stars and I love to look through ; 
Her voice the low, bewildering tone, 
Soft winds and she have made their own — 
Benedetta, Benedetta !" 

She was not by the fountain — but a band 
Of the fair daughters of that sunny land. 
Weeping they were, and as they wept they threw 
Flowers on a grave. Then suddenly I knew 
Of Benedetta dead : 

And, weeping too 

O'er beauty perished, 
Awhile with her companions there I stood. 
Then turned and went back to my solitude ; 
Arid the tall lindens flung a glimmering shade, 

And the old fountain played. 



A VESPEE. 

Sebesest Evening ! whether fall 

In arrowy gold thy sunset beams, 
Or dimmer radiance maketh all 

Like landscapes seen in dreams. 
I joy apart with thee to walk, 
I joy alone with thee to talk. 
With speech is thy clear blue endowed, 
Thine archipelagoes of cloud ; 
Of sweetest music and most rare 
I hear the utterances there, 
And nightly does my being rise 
To fonder converse with thy skies. 
Then from thy mists my home I date. 
Or, with thy fires incorporate. 
Am lightly to the zenith swinging. 

Or pouring glory on the woods. 
Or through some cottage window flinging 

The sunset's blessed floods. 
Mine is the beauty of the hour — 
All mine — if I confess its power. 

Behold the vast array of tents 

For me to sentinel to-night ! 
An instant — this magnificence 

Has faded out of sight. 
The tents are struck, the warriors' march 
Subsides along the stately arch. 
I saw the sword their leader drew 

Beneath the banner's crimson edge : 
'Twas lightning to the common view, 

To me a solemn pledge 
Unbroken as the smile of Him 
Who rules those cloudy cherubim. 



SARAH S. JACOBS. 



305 



The sun, his mh-rored smile, not yet 

Upon the loving earth has set. 

Happy in his caressing fold, 

The cottage roofs are domes of gold. 

To sip the misty surf he stoops ; 

Ontarios of light he scoops 

In sombrest turf, and still for me 

Alone his shining seems to be : 

Mine are his thousand rays that burn, 

I love and I appropriate ; 
Who loves enough creates return, 

Nor can be isolate. 



UBI AMOR, IBI FIDES. 

" All faith from human hearts is fled," 

I to that gentle lady said ; 

" Faith is an idle dream, I see, 

I'll trust in none, none trusteth me!" 

And I was moody, she was still ; 

Our souls were out of tune. 
Because I spoke such words of ill 

That summer afternoon. 
My lonely heart felt sick and weak — 
The gentle lady did not speak. 

So silently the path we took 

Along the common, by the brook. 

And walked together on the shore. 

As we had often walked before ; 

The sky was fair, the sands were white — 

Smooth flowed the silvery sea : 
I watched the snowy sea-gulls' flight. 

And so perhaps did she, 
As in the sunshine's parting glow 
The fair things sparkled to and fro. 

Methought I heard the ocean moan, 
In sorrow to be left alone ; 
And I rejoiced that sea and sky 
Should be bereaved as well as I. 
Our homeward path we could not miss. 

Along a narrow ledge. 
And by a beetling precipice 

Close to the water's edge — 
A hoary eminence and gray. 
Familiar with the ocean's spray. 

The ocean's spray that o'er it dashed. 
By strong east winds to madness lashed, 
Striving to reach the wintry stars. 
Kind Summer sought to hide the scars 
Of the huge rock's misshapen side 

With light fern's feathery nod, 
With yellow colt's-foot simple pride, 

And wealth of golden-rod. 
I liked in that stern cliff to see 
A brother-scorn and savagery ! 

Thus went we in the evening holy, 
Along the sea-line pacing slowly. 
When sudden, as from heaven sent, 
And free from earthly element, 
Stood on the crag a creature fair, 

Of bearing free and bold. 
Like wings of angels on the air 

His curls of shining gold, 

20 



And God had given to the face 
A beautiful and perfect grace. 

Nothing so beautiful before 

I saw, and shall see nevermore ; 

And I were loath to hear again 

A tone so full of stifled pain 

As when her eyes the lady raised, 

Her hand her forehead shading. 
And under that fair screening gazed 

Upon the sunset's fading. 
And knew between us and the sun 
That glorious child, her own — her one. 

His gaze was on the distance fixed. 
Where skies and seas their azure mixed ; 
Perchance his stainless childhood's thought 
The meaning of the ocean caught, 
And revelations never given 

When the world's vapors dim 
Have floated between us and heaven, 

Were present then with him. 
Plain spoke the sea's majestic roll 
In the white chambers of his sool. 

Safe stood he, while no downward glance 
Broke the glad tenor of his trance ; 
For lofty thoughts are angel-bands 
With charge to bear us in their hands. 
'T is sense of self that peril flings 

Around life's lonely peak. 
And causes mortal shudderings 

As in that infant weak. 
No more the seer — the angel bright — 
A child is on that dizzy height. 

Then rang the lady's silvery tone: 
" Mamma will come, my love, my own ! 
Look up and see the sky's bright hue. 
Until mamma can see it too." 
Alas ! ere we the summit gain. 

The boy will lose his hold ; 
The chilling fingers of the Main 

Uncurl those locks of gold ; 
And Death will kiss the eyelids fair 
Where late a mother's kisses were ! 

She saw that I could climb no more. 

So far the hoar crag jutted o'er ; 

Her look grew strange with agony, 

And hope died in her fading eye. 

Still the white lips spoke mild and clear — 

" Stand now upright, and spring !" 
The boy, without one pause of fear, 

Or single questioning. 
Leaped downward to her glad embrace, 
And in her bosom hid his face ! 

Wounded against the rocks I found her, 
A happy paleness breathing round her. 
Half like a woman dear and faint, 
Half with the look of some sweet saint. 
Fondly she clasped her hoy the while. 

Glad tears were in her ej^es ; 
Then unto me with gentle smile 

She said, reproachful-wise. 
And closer clasped that cooing dove — 
" They dwell together, Faith and Ixive !" 



LUELLA J. B. CASE. 



Miss Baetlett, a daughter of the late 
Hon. Levi Bartlett, and a grand-daughter of 
the revolutionary patriot, Josiah Bartlett, 
was born in Kingston, New Hampshire, and 
in 1838 was married to Mr. E. Case, then 



of Lowell, and more recently of Portland, 
Maine, and Cincinnati, Ohio. Her poems 
and prose writings have nearly all been pub- 
lished in miscellanies edited by her friend, 
the late Mrs. Edgerton Mayo. 



THE INDIAN RELIC. 

Yeahs ago was made thy grave 
By the Ohio's languid wave, 
"When primeval forests dim 
Echoed to the wild bird's hymn ; 
From that lone and quiet bed. 
Relic of the unknown dead, 
Why art thou, a mouldering thing. 
Here amongst the bloom of spring 1 

Violets gem the fresh, young grass. 
Softest breezes o'er thee pass ; 
Nature's voice, in tree and flower, 
Whispers of a waking hour ; 
Village sounds below are ringing. 
Birds around thee joyous singing — 
Thou, upon this height alone, 
No reviving power hast known. 

Yet wert thou of human form. 
Once with all life's instincts warm — 
Quailing at the storm of grief 
Like the fi'ailest forest leaf; 
With a bounding pulse — an eye 
Brightening o'er its loved ones nigh, 
Till beneath this cairn of trust. 
Dust was laid to blend with dust. 

When the red man ruled the wood. 
And his frail canoe yon flood. 
Hast thou held the imerring bow 
That the antlered head laid low 1 
And in battle's fearful strife. 
Swung the keen, remorseless knife "? 
Or, with woman's loving arm, 
Shielded helplessness from harm 1 
Silent — silent ! Naught below 
O'er thy past a gleam can throw : 
Or, in frame of sinewy chief. 
Woman, born for love and grief — • 
Thankless toil, or haughty sway 
Sped life's brief and fitful day. 
Like the autumn's sapless bough 
Crumbling o'er thee, thou art now. 

Rest ! A young, organic world. 
Into sudden ruin hurled. 
Casts its fragments o'er thy tomb. 
Midst the woodland's softened gloom ! 
Died those frail things long ago. 
But the soul no death can know: 



Rest ! thy grave, with silent preaching, 
Humble Hope and Faith is teaching. 

Rest ! Thy warrior tribes so bold 
Roam no more their forests old. 
And the thundering fire-canoe 
Sweeps their placid waters through : 
Science rules where Nature smiled, 
Art is toiling in the wild ; 
And their mouldering cairns alone 
Tell the tale of races gone. 

Thus, o'er Time's mysterious sea, 
Being moves perpetually : 
Crowds of swift, advancing waves 
Roll o'er vanished nation's graves ; 
But immortal treasures sweep 
Still unharmed that solemn deep : 
Progress holds a tireless way — 
Mind asserts her deathless sway. 



ENERGY IN ADVERSITY. 

ONWAnn I Hath earth's ceaseless change 

Trampled on thy heart 1 
Faint not, for that restless range 

Soon will heal the smart. 
Trust the future : time will prove 
Earth hath stronger, truer love. 

Bless thy God — the heart is not 

An abandoned urn, 
Where, all lonely and forgot. 

Dust and ashes mourn : 
Bless him, that his mercy brings 
Joy from out its withered things. 

Onward, for the truths of God — 

Onward, for the right ! 
Firmly let the field be trod. 

In hfe's coming fight: 
Heaven's own hand will lead thee on, 
Guard thee till thy task is done ! 

Then will brighter, sweeter flowers 

Blossom round thy way. 
Than ere sprung in Hope's glad bowers, 

In thine early day ; 
And the rolling years shall bring 
Strength and healing on their wing. 
306 



LUELLA J. B. CASE. 



307 



LA REVENANTE. 

Oh, look on me, dear one, with love and not fear : 
It is quenchless affection alone brings me here. 
Look on me ! I come not in mystery and gloom. 
With the pale winding-sheet and the hue of the tomb. 
The mould of the grave casts no stain on my brow. 
With the poor, sleeping ashes, my home is not now. 
Look on me, thou dear one ! the light of my eye 
Is loving and kind as in days long gone by, 
When, weeping and weary, thy head on my breast 
Was trustingly laid with its sorrows to rest. 
Then turn not away, for my face is the same 
That oft to thy bedside in infancy came, 
And a kiss was its welcome : now what can there be 
To make it so fearful and dreadful to thee 1 
Doth the life of the spirit, so pure and so high, [eye. 
Steal the smile from the cheek, or the love from the 
That the mortal must shrink with such palsying fear, 
To know that the holy and deathless are near ? 
Oh, a far keener pang than what doomed us to part, 
Is to feel that my presence sends chill to thy heart ! 
Though blissful my life as a spirit's can be, [thee ; 
Its bright hours are swept by fond yearnings for 
Soft, musical waves from the Past o'er my soul, 
Where never again may the vexed billows roll, 
Are wafting emotions so hallowed, yet wild, 
That I leave the hlesl land to behold thee, my child ! 
Thou hast called me with tears in the still, lonely 
And I spoke to thy spirit, but not to thy sight : [night. 
Thou hast dreamed of me oft by our own linden tree, 
When my kiss on thy cheek was the zephyr to thee ! 
Thy life since we parted has laid down its glow. 
And year after year has but shed deeper snow ; 
Whilst thou, from the stern, worldly lore of thy head. 
Hast turned with a heart-broken love to the dead ; 
I knew it, far off in my shadowless sphere, [near ; 
And I thought it might soothe thee to know I was 
But I would not one fear o'er thy tried spirit cast 
For all the deep, measureless love of the past : 
Farewell ! Thou wilt see me no more, but the spell 
Of affection shall guard thee, poor trembler, farewell ! 



A DEATH SCENE. 

'Tis evening's hush: the first faint shades are creep- 
Thro' the still room, and o'er the curtained bed, [ing 

Where lies a weary one, all calmly sleeping, 
Touched with the twilight of the land of dread. 

Death's cold gray shadow o'er her features falling, 
Marks her upon the threshold of the tomb ; 

Yet from within no sight nor sound appalling. 
Comes o'er her spirit with a thought of gloom. 

See — on her pallid lip brisht smiles are wreathing. 
While, from the tranquil gladness of her breast. 

Sweet, holy words in gentlest tones are breathing : 
" Come unto me, and I vfill give you rest." 

Night gathers round — chill, moonless, yet with ten- 
Mild, radiant stars, like countless angel-eyes, [der. 

Bending serenely, from their homes of splendor. 
Above the couch where that meek dreamer lies. 

The hours wear on: the shaded lampburnsdimmer. 
And ebbs that sleeper's breath as wanes the night, 



And still with looks of love those soft stars glimmer 
Along their pathways of unchanging light. 

She slumbers still — and the pale, wasted fingers 
Are gently raised, as if she dreamed of prayer; 

And on that lip so wan the same smile Hngers, 
And still those trustful words are trembling there. 

The night is done : the cold and solemn dawning 
With stately tread goes up the eastern sky ; 

But vain its power, and vain the pomp of morning. 
To lift the darkness from that dying eye. 

Yel Heaven's full joy is on that spirit beaming — 
The soul has found its higher, happier birth. 

And brighter shapes flit thro' its blessed dreaming 
Than ever gather round the sleep of earth. 

The sun is high, but ii-om those pale lips parted, 
No more those words float on the languid breath, 

Yet still the expression of the happy-hearted 
Has triumphed o'er the mournful shades of death. 

Thro' the hushed room the midday ray has wended 
Its glowing pinion to a pulseless breast : 

The gentle sleeper's mortal dreams are ended — 
The soul has gone to Him who gives it rest 



DEATH LEADING AGE TO REPOSE. 

Lead him gently — he is weary, 

Spirit of the placid brow ! 
Life is long and age is dreary, 

And he seeks to slumber now. 
Lead him gently — he is weeping 

For the friends he can not see ; 
Gently — for he shrinks from sleeping 

On the couch he asks of thee ! 
Thou, with mien of solemn gladness. 

With the thought-illumined eye. 
Pity thou the mortal's sadness — 

Teach him it is well to die. 
Time has veiled his eye with blindness. 

On thy face it may not dwell. 
Or its sweet, majestic kindness 

Would each mournful doubt dispel. 
Passionless thine every feature, 

Moveless is thy Being's calm, 
While poor sufliiring human nature 

Knows but few brief hours of balm : 
Yet, when life's long strife is closing. 

And the grave is drawing near. 
How it shrinks from that reposing 

Where there comes nor hope nor fear I 
Open thou the visioned portal. 

That reveals the life sublime, 
That within the land immortal 

Waits the weary child of Time. 
Open thou the land of beauty. 

Where the Ideal is no dream. 
And the'child of patient Duty 

Walks in joy's unclouded beam. 
Thou, with brow that owns no sorrow, 

AVith the eye that may not weep. 
Point him to Heaven's coming morrow — 

Show him it is well to sleep ! 



SARAH T. BOLTON. 



Mrs. Bolton resides in Ohio, and has been 
a contributor to the Herald of Truth in Cin- 
cinnati, to the Home Journal in New York, 



and to several other periodicals whose au- 
thors are accustomed to have meaning in 
their verses. 



LINES, 

SUGGESTED BY AN ANECDOTE OF PROFESSOR MORSE.* 

Didst thou desire to die and be at rest, 
Thou of the noble soul and giant mind 1 

Hadst thou grown weary in the hopeless quest 
Of blessedness that mortals seldom find 1 
Had care and toil and sorrow all combined 

To bring that sickness of the soul that mars 
The happiness that God for men designed. 

Till thy sad spirit spurned its prison-bars, 

And pined to soar away amidst the burning stars 1 

Perchance an angel sought thee in that hour — 
A blessed angel from the world of light, 

Teaching submission to Almighty power, 
Whose dealings all are equal, just, and right: 
Perchance Hope whispered of a future, bright 

And glorious in its triumph. Soon it came ; 
A world, admiring, hailed thee with delight. 

And learning joyed to trace thy deathless name 

Upon her ponderous tomes in characters of flame. 

Thou brightest meteor of a starry age, [wrought 
What does the world not owe thee 1 thou hast 

For scientific lore a glowing page : 
Thy mighty energy of mind has brought 
To man a wondrous agent : it has taught 

The viewless lightning in its fight sublime, 
To bear upon its wing embodied thought. 

Warm from its birthplace to the farthest clime. 

Annihilating space and vanquishing; e'en time. 

Didst thou look down into the shadovpy tomb, 
And crave the privilege to slumber there, 

* In a letter to General Morris, dated Trenton Falls, Au- 
gust 14, Mr. N. P. Willis relates the following curious an- 
ecdote ; " Among our fellow-passengers up the Mohawk, 
we had, in two adjoining seats, a very irapressive con- 
trast — an insane youth, ou his way to an asylum, and the 
mind that has achieved the greatest triumph of intellect 
in our time. Morse, of the electric telegraph, on an errand 
connected with the conveyance of thought hy lightning. 

In the course of a brief argument on the expediency 

of some provision for putting an end to a defeated and 
hopeless existence, Mr. Morse said that, ten years ago, 
under ill health and discouragement, he would gladly 
have availed himself of any divine authorization for ter- 
minating a life of which the possessor was weary. The 
sermon that lay in this chance remark— the loss of price- 
less discovery to the world, and the loss of fame and for- 
tune to himself, which would have followed a death tlius 
prematurely self-chosen — is valuable enough, I think, to 
justify the invasion of the sacredness of private conversa- 
tion which I commit by thus giving it to print. May some 
one, a-weary of the world, read it to his profit." 



Unhonored and forgotten 1 — thou, on whom 
Kind Heaven bestowed endowments rich and rare 7 
Was life a burden that thou couldst not bear ? 

A lesson this, to those whose souls have striven 
With disappointment, sorrow, and despair. 

Until they feed on poison, and are driven 

To quench the vital spark that Deity hath given. 

And it should teach our restless hearts how dim 
And erring is our finite vision here — 

Should make us trust, through humble faith, in Him 
Who sees alike the distant and the near. 
The cloud that seems so sombre, cold, and drear, 
May hide a prospect lovely, bright, and clear : 

When lightning's flash and winds are wild and high, 
No radiant beam of sunlight comes to cheer ; 

But when the wrecking tempest has gone by, 

God sets the blessed bow of promise m the sky 



THE SPIRIT OF TRUTH... 

I DREAMED that I saw, on the fair brow of heaven, 
The star-jewelled veil of a nridsummer even; 
I looked, and, as quick as a meteor's birth, 
A beautiful Spirit descended to earth. 

Her brow wore a halo of light, and her eye 
Was bright as the stars and as blue as the sky ; 
Her low, silvery voice trembled soft as a spell, 
To the innermost chords of the heart, as it fell. 

One hand held a banner inscribed with "accoud," 
The other, the glorious Word of the Lord : 
Then, softly, the beautiful vision did glide 
To the palace a rich man had reared in his pride. 

Through curtains of crimson the sun's mellow beam 
Fell, soft as the tremulous light of a dream. 
On all that was gorgeous in nature and art — 
On all that could gladden the eye or the heart 

The rich man was clad in fine purple and gold. 
The wealth in his coffers might never be told ; 
The brows of the servants that waited around 
Grew bright when he smiled, and grew pale when 
he frowned. 

Then did that proud nobleman tremble and start, 
As the bright Spirit whispered these words to his 

heart : 
" If thou wouldst have wealth when Ufe's journey 

is o'er. 
Sell all that thou hast, and divide with the poor." 



SARAH T. BOLTON. 



309 



She stood in the cell, where the death-breathing air 
Was rife with the groans of the prisoner's despair, 
As sadly he looked, through the long lapse of time, 
To days when his soul was unstained by a crime. 

She pointed away to his Father above — 
She soothed him in accents of pity and love, 
And said, as she severed the links of his chain, 
*' Thy sins are forgiven, transgress not again." 

She came in her strength, and the gallows that stood 
For ages, all reeking and blackened ^vith blood, 
Like a lightnmg-scared fiend, pointing up to the sky, 
Fell prostrate to earth, at the glance of her eye. 

She spoke! old earth heard, and herpulses were still: 
"God's holy commandment forbiddeth to kill." 
That spirit of beauty, that spirit of might, [light. 
Went forth, till the earth was illumined with her 

The strong one relenting, was fain to restore [poor : 
The spoil he had wrenched from the, hand of the 
Injustice, oppression, and wrong, fled away, 
Before the pure light of millennial day. 

The turbulent billows of faction grew calm ; 
The lion laid down in the fold with the lamb; 
The ploughshare was forged from the sabre and 

sword, 
And the mighty bowed down to the sway of the Lord. 
The heathen with joy cast his idols away. 
And knelt 'neath his own vine and fig tree to pray. 
By every kindred, and nation, and tongue, 
Glad anthems of praise to Jehovah were sung. 



KENTUCKY'S DEAD.'* 

Kentucky, mother of the brave ! 

Let solemn prayers be said, 
And welcome to an honored grave 

Thy loved and gallant dead. 
Thy gallant dead — they come, they come ! 

What will thy greeting be ? 
The bugle note, the martial drum. 

And banners waving firee ? 
No : toll for them the solemn knell. 

Let dirges sad be sung, 
And be the flag they loved so well 

A pall around them flung. 
In other days, when freemen bled 

In fearful border strife, 

* The bones of the Kenhickiana who .died under the 
tomahawk at the river Raisin, in 1812. were conveyed to 
the river shore, at Cincinnati, on the 2!]ih of Peptemlier, 
11^48, by an escort of Cincinnati firemen, and placed in 
charge of the Kentucky committee, to whom their recep- 
tion was assiimed. They were contained in a wooden 
bos, painted black, bearing the inscription : 

"KENTUCKY'S GALLAXT DKAD. 
January 18, 1812.— River Raisin, Micliigan," 

The bones of these brave men were found in a eona- 
mon grave, which was accidentally upturned while a 
street in Monroe, Michigan, was being graded. The fact 
of the skulls being all cloven with the tomahawk, induced 
the workmen to make inquiry, and an aged Frenchman, 
a survivor of the massacre, knew them as the bones of 
the unfortunate Kentuckians — remembering the spot 
where tliey were buried. Informntion was sent to Ken- 
tucky, and that state promptly took means for their re- 
moval. The charge was devolved upon Colonel Brooke, 
a participant in, and survivor of, that unfortunate battle. 



When savage tomahawks were red 
With unotTending life — 

With all the ardor youth imparts. 

They sought the battle plain : 
Those stalwart forms and noble hearts, 

Came never back again. 

Oh, they were missed where kindred met 

In cottage homes of yore — 
Flowers b!oomed and died, suns rose and set. 

But they returned no more. 

Young hopeful hearts in sorrow pined. 

Young eyes were wet with tears, 
And, fondly mourning. Memory shrined 

Their names for weary years. 
Theirs was no common battle field, 

For savage hearts decreed ; 
And savage vengeance there revealed 

A most inhuman deed. 
A grave to rest in was denied 

The brave and gallant slain ; 
And foemen left them where they died, 

Upon the battle plain. 
No voice to soothe, no hand to bless, 

The suifering wounded came; 
But they, in all their helplessness, 

Were given to the flame. 
Where Raisin's sparkling waters glide 

Through forest, grove, and glade. 
Defending Freedom's soil, they died, 

And there their graves were made — 
Yes, made beneath the ancient trees, 

Deep in the tangled wilds; 
Their only requiem was the breeze 

Amidst the forest aisles. 
The moonbeams came at midnight's hour 

And softly trembled there. 
And angels made that lonely bower 

Their never sleeping care. 
And fragrant flowers, of brilliant dyes. 

Bloomed o'er the silent sod, 
And lifted up their tearful eyes 

Like mourners to their God. 
The world has changed ; for many years 

Have come since then and gone. 
With joys and woes, and hopes and fear, 

And still they slumber on. 
The pleasant homes in which they grew 

Are now the stranger's care: 
The gay, and beautiful, and true, 

And loved — they are not there. 
The friends who knew their manly worth 

Have passed from time away ; 
The children left beside their hearth 

Are growing old and gray. 
Another generation bears 

Their ashes, sad and slow — 
Another generation wears 

For them the weeds of wo. 
Thy gallant dead ! oh, hoard their dust 

Within thy holiest shrine : 
It is a proud, a sacred trust — 

Their deathless fame is thine ! 



HANNAH J. WOODMAN. 



Miss Woodman is the authoress of The 
Casket of Gems, and two or three oiher small 
volumes, and she has been for several years 
a teacher in the public schools of Boston, of 



which city she is a native. Many of her po- 
ems appeared in the miscellanies edited by 
her friend Mrs. Edgarton Mayo. There is 
no published collection of them. 



THE ANNUNCIATION. 

Luke i. M-33. 

Silence o'er ancient Judah ! 'T was the hush 
Of holy eve, and through the balmy air 

There came a trembling and melodious gush 
Of softest melody, as if the prayer 

Of kneeling thousands had prevailed on high, 

And angel choirs were bending to reply. 

Man heard the sound of music, and arose, 
And cast the mantle of despair away, 

And said, *' Deliverance comes, forget your woes, 
There dawns on Judah her triumphant day." 

But, with the solemn strain of music, passed 

Tlie hopes too flattering and too lair to last. 

Not so to one, the humblest of her race — 
For to her startled and astonished eye 

There came a visitant of matchless grace. 
Robed in a garment of celestial dye : 

" Fear not, thou highly favored" — thus he sang, 

While Heaven's high arches with the echoes rang. 

" Fear not, thy God is with thee, and hast poured 
The richest of his blessings on thy head ; 

And thou wilt bear a son, on whom the Lord 
The fulness of his grace and power will shed : 

His name shall be Emmanuel, Mighty One, 

Savior of men, and God's anointed Son." 

Oh, who can paint the rushing tides of thought 
Which swept like lightning through the startled 
mind 

Of that lone worshipper, whose faith was brought 
Thus suddenly its utmost verge to find : 

It failed not, and the curtain was withdrawn 

Which veiled futurity's eifulgent dawn. 

She rose with brow serene : her eyes forgot 
Their dreamy softness, and were upward cast, 

Filled with celestial radiance. Earth had not 
The power that glorious prophecy to blast : 

" Behold the handmaid of the Lord, and teach 

The trembling lip to frame submissive speech !" 

Again there floated on the ambient air 
That thrilling melodv, while countless throngs. 

Waving their golden censers, heard the prayer. 
Which mingled with their own triumphant songs. 



The vision faded in a sea of light, 

And left to earth the still and holy night 



WHEN WILT THOU LOVE ME? 

Lovr. me when the spring is here, 

With its busy bird and bee ; 
When the air is soft and clear, 

And the heart is full of glee ; 
When the leaves and buds are seen 

Bursting frsm the naked bough. 
Dearest, with a faint serene. 

Wilt thou love me then as now t 

When the queenly June is dressed 

In her robes so fair and bright ; 
When the earth, most richly blessed, 

Sleeps in soft and golden light ; 
When the sweetest songs are heard 

In the forest, on the hill — 
When thy soul by tliese is stirred, 

Dearest, wilt thou love me still 1 

When the harvest-moon looks out 

On the fields of ripened grain ; 
When the merry reapers shout 

While they glean the burdened plain ; 
When, their labors o'er, they sit 

Listening to the night-bird's lay, 
May there o'er thy memory flit 

Thoughts of one far, far away ! 

When the winter hunts the bird 

From his leaiy home and bower ; 
When the bee, no longer heard, 

Bides the cold, ungenial hour; 
When the blossoms rise no more 

From the garden, field, and glen ; 
When our forest joys are o'er. 

Dearest, wilt thou love mc then ? 

Love for ever ! 'tis the spring 

Whence our choicest blessings flow ! 
Angel harps its praises sing. 

Angel hearts its secrets know. 
When thy feet are turned away 

From the busy haunts of men — 
When thy feet in Eden stray. 

Dearest, wilt thou love me then 1 
310 



SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 



Susan Archer T alley was born in Han- 
over county, Virginia, where tlie early years 
of her childhood were passed. Her father 
was descended from one of those Huguenots 
who, escaping the massacre of St. Bartholo- 
mew, fled to America, and settled in Virginia. 
He studied law under the late Judge Robert 
Taylor of Norfolk, but on account of ill health 
subsequently resigned the practice of his pro- 
fession, and retired to a place in the imme- 
diate vicinity of Richmond, where he recent- 
ly died, and where his family still resides. — 
Her mother was a daughter of Captain Ar- 
cher, of one of the oldest and most distin- 
guished families of Norfolk. 

Miss Talley was remarkable for a preco- 
city of intellect and an early development of 
character. Though of an exceedingly happy 
temperament, she rarely mingled with other 
children, but would spend most of her time 
in reading, in an intense application to study, 
or in wandering amid the beautiful woods 
and meadows that surrounded her father's 
residence. At nine years of age she sudden- 
ly and entirely lost her hearing, which had 
evidently the effect of subduing the natural 
joyousness of her disposition, and of produ- 
cing that dreamy and contemplative tone of 
character which has since distinguished her. 
It may be said that from this period till she 
was sixteen her life was passed in the soli- 
tude of her chamber, where she seemed to 
derive from books a constant and ever in- 
creasing enjoyment. In consequence of her 
extreme diffidence it was not until she was 
in her fifteenth year that the nature and force 
of her talents were apprehended by her most 
intimate associates. A manuscript volume 
of her verses now fell under the observation 
of her father, who saw in them illustrations 
of unlooked-for powers, to the cultivation of 
which he subsequently devoted himself with 
intelligent and assiduous care while he lived. 
When she was about seventeen years of age 
some of her poems appeared in The South- 
ern Literary Messenger, and, yielding to the 
wishes of her friends, she has since been a 



frequent and popular contributor to that ex- 
cellent magazine. 

What is most noticeable in the poems of 
Miss Talley is their rhythmical harmony, 
considered in connexion with her perfect in- 
sensibility to sound, for a period so long that 
she could not have had before its commence- 
ment any ideas of musical expression or po- 
etical art. The only instance in literary his- 
tory in which so melodious a versification 
has been attained under similar circumstan- 
ces is that of James Nack, the deaf and dumb 
poet of New York, whose writings were sev- 
eral years ago given to the public by Mr. 
Prosper M. Wetraore. There is not in Mr. 
Nack's poems, however, any single compo- 
sition that can be compared with Ennerslie, 
in grace, or variety of cadences, or in ideal 
beauty. This poem, without being an imi- 
tation, will remind the reader of one of the 
finest productions of Tennyson. 

Miss Talley is remarkable not only for the 
peculiar interest of her character, but for the 
variety of her abilities. She is a painter as 
well as a poet, and some of the productions 
of her pencil have been praised by the best 
critics in the artsof design, both for striking 
and original conception and for skilful exe- 
cution. Her friends therefore anticipate for 
her a distinguished position among those wo- 
men who have cultivated painting, and they 
find in her pictures the same characteristics 
that mark her literary compositions. 

Young, and gifted with such unusual pow- 
ers, she rarely mingles in society beyond the 
select circle of friends by whom she is sur- 
rounded. She finds her happiness in the 
quiet pleasures and affections of home. Her 
life is essentially that of a poet. Ardent in 
temperament, yet shrinkingly sensitive, with 
a fine fancy which is often warmed into im- 
agination, and an instinctive apprehension 
and love of the various forms of beauty, po- 
etry becomes the expression of her nature, 
and the compensation for that infirmity by 
which she is deprived of half the pleasures 

that minister to a fine intelligence. 

311 



312 



SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 



ENNERSLIE. 

I. 

A HOABT tower, grim and high, 
All beneath a summer sky, 
Where the river glideth by 

Sullenly — sullenly ; 
Across the wave in slugglish gloom, 
Heavy and black the shadows loom, 
But the water-lilies brightly bloom 

Round about grim Ennerslie. 

All upon the bank below 
Alders green and willows grow, 
That ever sway them to and fro 

Mournfully — mournfully ; 
Never a boat doth pass that way. 
Never is heard a carol gay. 
Nor doth a weary pilgrim stray 

Down by haunted Ennerslie. 

Yet in that tower is a room 
From whose oaken-fretted dome 
Weird faces peer athwart the gloom 

Mockingly — mockingly ; 
And there beside the taper's gleam 
That maketh darkness darker seem. 
Like one that waketh in a dream, 

Sits the lord of Ennerslie : 

Sitteth in his carved chair — 
From his forehead pale and fair 
Falleth down the raven hair 

Heavily — heavily ; 
There is no color on his cheek, 
His lip is pale — he doth not speak. 
And rarely doth his footstep break 

The stillness of grim Ennerslie. 
From the casement, mantled o'er 
With ivy-boughs and lichens hoar. 
The shadows creep along the floor 

Stealthily — stealthily ; 
They glide along, a spectral train, 
And rest upon the crimson stain 
Where of old a corpse was lain — 

Murdered at gi'im Ennerslie. 

In a niche within the wall. 
Where the shadows deepest fall. 
Like a coffin and a pall. 

Gloomily — gloomily. 
Sits an owlet, huge and gray. 
That there hath sat for many a day. 
And like a ghost doth gaze alway 

Upon the lord of Ennerslie ; 

Gazeth with its mystic eyes 
Ever in a weird surprise, 
Like some demon in disguise. 

Ceaselessly — ceaselessly ; 
And close beside that haunted nook, 
Bendeth o'er an open book, 
With a strange and dreamy look. 

The pale young lord of Ennerslie. 

With a measured step and slow, 
At times he paces to and fro. 
Muttering in whispers low. 
Fitfully— fitfully ; 



Or resting in his ancient chair. 
Gazing on the vacant air — 
Sure some phantom sees he there. 
The haunted lord of Ennerslie ! 

There is a picture on the wall, 
A statue on a pedestal — 
Standing where the sunbeams fall 

Goldenly — goldenly ; 
And in either form and face 
The self-same beauty you may trace- 
Imaged with a wondrous grace, 

That angel-form at Ennerslie ! 

Once, 'tis said, upon a time. 
Ere his manhood's golden prime. 
Wandering in a southern cliuie 

Restlessly — restlessly. 
There passed him by a lady fair, 
With violet eyes and golden hair : 
It is her form that gleameth there. 

That angel-form at Ennerslie. 

When the stars are in the west, 
And the water-Ulies rest, 
Rocking on the river's breast 

Sleepily — sleepily — 
When the curfew, far remote, 
Blendeth with the night-bird's note, 
Down the river glides a boat 

From the shades of Ennerslie. 

Glideth on by EUesmaire, 
Where doth dwell a lady fair, 
With violet eyes and golden hair, 

Lonesomely — lonesomely ; 
At the window's height alway 
She weaves a scarf of colors gay, 
And in the distance far away 

She seeth haunted Ennerslie. 

Sitting in her lonely room. 
Ere the twilight's purple gloom. 
Weaving at her fairy loom 

Wearily — wearily, 
She heareth music sweet and low : 
It is a song she well doth know ; 
She used to sing it long ago — 

It Cometh up from Ennerslie. 
Back she threw the casement wide ; 
She saw the river onward glide. 
The lilies nodding on the tide 

Sleepily — sleepily ; 
She saw a boat with snowy sail 
Bearing onward with the gale ; 
She saw the silken streamer pale — 

She saw the lord of Ennerslie ! 



Fading are the summer leaves — 
The fields are rich with golden sheaves 
Her silken web the lady weaves 

Wearily — wearily ; 
Her cheek has lost its summer bloom, 
Her lovely eyes are full of gloom, 
She weaveth at her fairy loom. 

And looketh down to Ennerslie. 



SUSAN ARCHEK TALLEY. 



313 



She dolh not smile, she cloth not sigh — 
Above her is the cold gray sky ; 
Below, the river moaneth by 

Drearily — drearily ; 
She sees the withered leaflets ride 
Like fairy barks adown the tide : 
She saith, " Right merrily they glide, 

For they go down to Ennerslie." 

Beside her on the hearth of stone, 
There sits a bent and withered crone. 
Who doth for ever rock and moan 

Drowsily — drowsily ; 
She crooneth songs of mystic rhyme, 
And legends of the olden time; 
She telleth tales of death and crime — 

She tells of haunted Ennerslie. 

She telleth how, as she hath heard. 
How dwelleth there a demon weird 
In seeming of an owsel-bird. 

Ceaselessly — ceaselessly ; 
And how that fiend must linger still, 
And work the master wo and ill, 
Till one shall dare with fearless will 

Go down to haunted Ennershe. 

She telleth how — that ancient crone — 

He loved a lady years agone, 

The fairest that the earth has known. 

Secretly — secretly — 
But dare not woo her for his bride. 
Because that death will sure betide 
The first that in her beauty's pride 

Shall go to haunted Ennerslie. 

She listened — but she nothing said ; 

Like a lily drooped her head. 

Her white hand wound the silken thread 

Carelessly — carelessly ; 
She rove the scarf from out the loom, 
She slowly paced across the room. 
And gleaming through the midnight gloom 

She saw the light at Ennerslie. 

The nurse she slumbered in her chair : 

Then up arose that lady fair 

And crept adown the winding stair 

Silently — silently ; 
A boat was by the river-side, 
The silken web as sail she tied, 
And lovely in her beauty's pride, 

Went sailing down to Ennershe. 

Back upon the sighing gale 

Her tresses floated like a veil ; 

Her brow was cold, her cheek was pale, 

Fearfully — fearfully ; 
She heard strange whispers in her ear, 
She saw a shadow hover near — 
Her very life-blood chilled with fear, 

As down she went to Ennershe. 

As upward her blue eyes she cast, 
A shadowy form there flitted past, 
And settled on the quivering mast 

Silently — silently. 
The lady gazed, yet spake no word ; 
She knew it was the evil bird, 



The wicked demon, grim and weird, 
That dwelt at haunted Ennerslie. 

Fainter from the tower's height 
Seems to her the beacon-light, 
Gleaming on her darkening sight 

Fitfully —fitfully ; 
The river's voice is faint and low. 
An icy calm is on her brow ; 
She saith, " The curse is on me now, 

But he is free at Ennerslie !" 

Within that tower's solitude 
He sitteth in a musing mood, 
And gazeth down upon the flood 

Dreamily — dreamily : 
When lo ! he sees a fairy bark 
Gliding amid the shadows dark. 
And there a lady still and stark — 

A wondrous sight at Ennerslie. 

He hurried to the bank below. 
Upon the strand he drew the prow — • 
He drew it in the moonhght's glow, 

Eagerly — eagerly ; 
He parted back the golden hair 
That veiled the cheek and forehead fair; 
He started at her beauty rare, 

The pale young lord of Ennerslie. 

He called her name : she nothing said ; 
Upon his bosom drooped her head ; 
The color from her wan cheek fled 

Utterly — utterly. 
Slowly rolled the sluggish tide, 
The breeze amid the willows sighed ; 
" This is too deep a curse !" he cried — 

The stricken lord of Ennerslie. 



GENIUS. 

SpiniT immortal and divine ! 

Whose calm and searching eye 
Looks forth upon the universe, 

Its wonders to descry — 
Whose eagle-wing, resistless, proud, 
Hath soared above each misty cloud 

That o'er us darkly spread — 
I bow before thee, as of old 
The Grecian bowed to her who told 

The oracles of dread. 

For thou art Nature's prophet — priest, 

Anointed by her God, 
And dwellest in her sacred courts, 

By others all untrod : 
To thee alone 'tis given to raise 
The veil that shrouds from mortal gaze 

Her mysteries sublime ; 
To hear her sweet and solemn tone 
Revealing wonders else unknown 

In all the lapse of time. 

And more — the human heart is deep, 
And passionate, and strong, 

But thou mayst read its sealed page, 
And search its depths among ; 

Mayst bow it with thy spell of might. 



314 SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 


Or urge it to a prouder flight, 


A thousand monuments sublime 


A loftier desire — 


Commemorate each name ! 


Till, yielding to tliy high control. 


Thus Genius lives — its spirit caught 


The newly-wakened, eager soul. 


From heaven's own height afar. 


To purer things aspire. 


Shines tranquil mid the gloom of earth. 


Thou dwellest on this lowly earth. 


An ever-guiding star : 


Majestic and alone ; 


A shining mark that's given to show 


Thy home is in a brighter clime. 


To those who darkly tread below 


Near the Eternal's throne; 


The way our pathway tends ; 


And evermore, in tameless might. 


A beauty and a mystery. 


Still strives! thou to wing thy flight. 


A prophecy of things to be 


Its glory to attain ; 


When earthly being ends ! 


E'en as the eagle turns his eye. 


A prophecy of glorious things — 


Though fettered, to his native sky, 


Of holy things and bright. 


And struggles with his chain. 


Which we behold not through the mists 


Men gaze in strange and wondering awe 


That dim our mortal sight; 


On thine inspired brow. 


A voice that whispers fi-om afar, 


But reck not of the hidden things 


Telling of wondrous things that are 


That darkly sleep below ; 


Where perfectness hath power ! 


Nor how thou spurnest earth's control. 


A light to guide the spirit on 


What voices haunt thy troubled soul — 


Till that celestial state be won 


What shadows round thee play ; 


Which was our primal dower. 


Thy dreams are all of future bliss. 


Thou shall go forth in prouder might 


Of other worlds — and e'en in this 


And firmer strength ere long, 


Thy name shall not decay ! 


And Truth shall guide thee on thy way 


Sage ! musing in thy lonely cell — 


With revelation strong ; 


Aspiring, yet serene ; 


And thou shalt see with wondering eyes 


Tracking afar the light of truth. 


The thousand mighty mysteries 


Through darkness dimly seen— 


That round our being cling ; 


A thousand minds thy truths have caught, 


Unfolding truths whose shadows lie 


And pondered o'er thy lofty thought. 


Darkly before the doubting eye. 


In inspiration high : 


Our souls bewildering. 


A thousand minds have scanned the page 


High souls have gazed on wondrous things. 


Made clearer by the lapse of age. 


And men have called them dreams — 


In which thy treasures lie. 


But they are such as shadowed stars 


Bard — lo ! the thrilling strain that poured 


Upon the mirroring streams ; 


Thy soul's deep melodies, 


We gaze upon the phantom-glow — 


Have waked in many an echoing heart 


Alas ! we gaze too much below — 


A thousand sympathies ; 


And strive to grasp in vain ; 


Have lived through years of dull decay 


But Genius turns his gaze afar, 


When princely names have passed away. 


Where like a pure and shining star 


That were a glory then. 


The glorious truth is seen ! 


Till every word hath thus become 

Like to a thrilling voice of home, 

In the deep hearts of men ! 


Go forth, thou spirit proud and high. 

Upon thy soaring flight ! 
Thou art the messenger of God, 


And ye o'er whose inspired souls 


And he will guide thee right. 


Strange shapes of beauty gleamed. 


Go proudly forth and fearlessly, 


Embodied to the gaze of men 


For many a hidden mystery 


In forms of heaven that seemed — 


Awaits thee to unseal : 


The marble still in beauty lives. 


And men shall gaze in rapt surprise 


The pictured canvass but receives 


On wonders that to darkened eyes 


New value from decay ; 


Thy brightness shall reveal ! 


And both shall perish ere the name 




Of him who gave them unto fame 


' 


Hath passed, like them, away. 


MY SISTER. 


And they, to whom were given the gift 


I HATE an only sister. 


Of Inspiration's tongue — 


Fresh in her girlish glee, 


Upon whose high, commanding words 


For she is only seventeen. 


Senates in rapture hung ; 


And still is fancy free : 


And they, the dauntless chiefs and brave, 


She has a fair and happy face. 


On battle-field and ocean-wave. 


Like cloudless skies in May— 


Who won a lofty fame — 


Or like a lake, where tranquilly 


Lo ! deathless, and defying Time, 


The silver moonbeams play. 



SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 



315 



She is my only sister, 

And we've together grown, 
Till childhood's thoughtless glee hath changed 

To girlhood's gentle tone ; 
And we have shared in varied scenes 

Of sadness and of glee, 
But never were two sisters 

As different as we. 
Yet in our outward seeming. 

In feature and in face, 
They say that e'en a careless glance 

May some resemblance trace ; 
Save that a flood of sunny light 

O'er her seems softly shed, 
While over me some darker shades 

Like twilight shadows spread. 
Her tresses, tinged with golden. 

All gracefully entwine 
Upon a calm and placid brow 

Of fairer hue than mine ; 
Her cheek is of a brighter glow, 

Her eye a softer brown, 
Where from the dark and drooping fringe 

A dreamy shade is thrown. 
My sister hath no sorrow 

To check her spirit free ; 
No mournful shadows o'er her pass 

As oft they pass o'er me ; 
Her smile is ever beaming forth 

In one unchanging mood, 
The gladness of a sunny heart 

By sorrow unsubdued. 
She's happy mid the revelry. 

And in the mazy dance ; 
And in the drearest solitude 

As brightly shines her glance ; 
She calmly plucks the flowers of life 

Around her pathway spread. 
And careth not for those to bloom, 

Nor dreams of others dead. 
The deep, delirious dreamings. 

Whose wild, bewildering strife 
Beguiles the heart from sober truths 

And wearies it of life — 
The sudden fits of mournfulness, 

Of wild and fitful glee. 
My sister's tranquil breast knows not, 

As they are known to me. 
There are many like my sister — 

They who serenely glide, 
Secure in tranquil cheerfulness, 

Adown life's stormy tide. 
'Tis strange to think how tranquilly 

They brave the tempest's frown, 
And calmly breast the troubled waves. 

When other barks go down ! 
My fair and gentle sister ! 

How calmly glides her life — ■ 
No weariness to dim her brow. 

No care or spirit-strife : 
With happy heart she hears alone 

The music of life's stream. 
And all things seem to her as yet 

A fair and fairy dream ! 



THE SEA-SHELL. 

SAnLT the murmur, stealing 

Through the dim windings of the mazy shell, 
Seemeth some ocean-mystery concealing 

Within its cell. 

And ever sadly breathing. 

As with the tone of far-off" waves at play, [ing, 

That dreamy murmur through the sea-shell wreath- 
Ne'er dies away. 

It is no faint replying 

Of far-off" melodies of wind and wave. 
No echo of the ocean-billow, sighing 

Through gem-lit cave. 

It is no dim retaining 

Of sounds that through the dim sea-caverns swell; 
But some lone ocean-spirit's sad complaining 

Within that cell. 
"Where are the waters flowing?" 

Thus breathes that ever-wailing spirit-tone ; 
" Where are the bright gems in their beauty glow- 
In cavern lone 1 ['"g, 
" I languish for the ocean — 

I pine to view the billow's heaving crest ; 
I miss the music of its dreamlike motion, 

That lulled to rest. 
" Where are the bright waves playing ? 

Where sleeps the cavern's still and gem-lit gloom 1 
For there I know sweet tones, yet sad, are straying, 

That call me home !" 
In vain thy plaintive sighing. 

Lone ocean-sprite ! thy home is far away ; 
No ocean-music giveth sweet replying 

Unto thy lay. 
Far off" the waves are gleaming ; 

Thy sisters deck with pearls their tresses fair. 
And gem-light through the ocean-caves is stream- 

Thou art not there ! [ing : 

How like art thou, sad spirit. 

To many a one, the lone ones of the earth ! — 
Who in the beauty of their souls inherit 

A purer birlh ; 
They who, for ever yearning. 

Pine for the glory of their far-off home ; 
Unto its half-veiled beauty sadly turning, 

From earthly gloom. 
Whose tones, for ever swelling. 

Pour forth the melody of burning thought ; 
From the sweet music of that far-off dwelling 

An echo caught ! 
Like thine the restless sighing — 

Like thine the melody their spirits own ; 
No kindred music to their own replying. 

No answering tone ! 
They dream — they dream for ever ! 

They live in visions beautiful and vain ; 
And vain the spirit's passionate endeavor 

To break their chain. 
Yet thou, lone child of ocean, 

Mayst never more behold thine ocean-foam ; 
While they shall rest from each wild, sad emotion. 

And find their home ! 



REBECCA S. NICHOLS. 



Miss Rebecca S. Reed, now Mrs. Nichols, 
is a native of the little town of Greenwich, 
in New Jersey, where her father was a phy- 
sician. When she was seventeen years of 
age. Dr. Reed removed to Kentucky, and a 
few months afterward she was married, in 
Louisville, to Mr. W. Nichols, of Homer, in 
New York. Her first appearance as an au- 
thor was under the signature of " Ellen," in 
the Louisville News Letter, in 1839. In the 
same year Mr. Nichols removed to St. Louis, 
where he established The Pennant, a daily 
gazette, from which in a few months he 
withdrew and went to Cincinnati, where he 
has since resided. 



In 1844, Mr. Nichols published a volume 
entitled Bernice, or the Curse of Minna, and 
other Poems, and she has since been a fre- 
quent contributor to the periodicals, under 
her proper signature and under that of " Kate 
Cleveland." Bernice is a romantic story, in 
three cantos. The scene is in Italy ; and the 
poem contains some striking passages, but 
none that should add to the good reputation 
she has acquired by her minor pieces, many 
of which are evidently the offspring of real 
emotion, and bear to that the relation of expe 
rience to the fictitious passion of the stage. 
Some of her best pieces were first published in 
The Guest, a journal of which she was editress 



TO MY BOY IN HEAVEN. 

I r.AZEn upon thee ! Was it rigkl Death 

That sat enlhrone'd upon thine icy brow ? 
Ah no ! methought I saw the living breath 

Of life expand thy heaving breast but now : 
He sleej^s ! tread softly — wake him not ; how bright 

These dreams of heaven upon his spirit fall ! 
They fold it slumbering 'neath their wings of light, 

And bear it up to Heaven's high festival — 
The festival of dreams — where spirits hold 

Their deep communings, when the seraph Sleep 
Spreads his encircling wings, which softly fold 

The earth to rest, and close the eyes that weep. 

It was a fearful dream : methought ye said 

That he — my boy — was of the earth no more ! 
That all the sentinels of life had fled, 

And that pale Death their portals guarded o'er : 
Ye deemed that I should weep — but not a tear 

B urst from tVie frozen founts where they were pent. 
Though dark, foreboding thought and bitter fear 

Rushed to mj' heart, and bade my soul lament. 
He is not dead — he sleeps : he could not die, 

So loved, so beautiful ! If Death should bear 
His spirit hence, e'en to his native sky, 

My voice would pierce the inner temples there ! 

He is not dead ! Ah, how my spirit mocks 

The vain delusion ! Can I look on this, [locks 7 
And doubt whose hand each charmed vein now 

I dare not claim what Death hath sealed as his : 
And thus I gave, thee, Arthur, to the tomb, 

And saw the brow oft pillowed next my heart 
Laid down amid the dust and darkling gloom. 

To be, alas ! too soon of dust a part ! 
I saw them heap the earth about thy form. 

And press the light turf o'er thy peaceful breast, 
Then leave thee to the cold and brooding worm. 

As some young dove in a deserted nest. 



I gazed : it was the autumn's golden light [home 

That flung bright shadows o'er thy new-made* 
While through the trees that waved in colors bright, 

I heard the low sweet winds thy dirges moan ! 
And there was one looked with me on that scene, 

Who bade me know our bitter loss thy gain ; 
But ah ! his cheek was pale as mine, I ween, 

And from his eyes the hot tears fell like rain. 
That eve, while gazing on the midnight sky. 

One bright new star looked out from its lone 
sphere : 
We knew no name to call the stranger by. 

So gave it thine, and deemed that thou wert near. 

The autumn passed : how desolate was earth ! 

How froze the lucid veins upon her brow ! 
While oft the spectre winds now wandered forth 

Like unseen spirits, treading sad and slow : 
Dark, hoary winter came, with piercing breath. 

And gave to earth a passionless embrace — 
Ah me ! 'twas as the lip of white-browed Death 

Had kissed with fondness some beloved face : 
The dazzling snow-wreath garlanded thy tomb, 

While each pale star, effulgent as the day. 
Let forth its glittering beams amid the gloom. 

And dimpled earth, where this white splendor lay. 

I left thee : wooed to that rich southern clime 

Where glows the orange and where blooms the 
The land of passion, where the brow of time [rose ; 

Dims not, but with renewed splendor glows — 
The joyous Spring on her triumphal car 

Rode through the land in beauty and in Ught, 
And on the young south wind flung wide and far 

The odor of her flowers — her spirit's young delight. 
I rested not, though all was bright and green, 

For still I heard thy gentle voice's moan : 
My spirit leaped the darkling space between, 

And knelt, all breathless, by thy twilight home ! 
316 



REBECCA S. NICHOLS. 



317 



One year hath flown — one Httle circling year — 

A dim, faint shadow of the wing of Time ; 
Nor hath mine eye forgot the secret tear, 

Or heart to weave the sad and mournful rhyme : 
I stand beside thee — and I quickly trace 

The loving hand that hath been busy here. 
Who gave such beauty to thy dwelling-place, 

And bade the fresh green grass wave lightly there 1 
My heart is full, nor can I say farewell. 

E'en to thy gentle shade, oh spirit bright ! 
W ithout one prayer for him who wove the spell 

Of lovehness where all was rayless night. 

Not unremembered, then, thy narrow home 

Within the city of the voiceless dead; 
For hither oft a kindred form would roam, 

And place fresh turf above thy fair young head. 
I stand beside thee ! — and again the dreams 

Of olden time rise up before my view, 
While lulling sounds, like to the voice of streams, 

Float o'er my soul, soft as the morning dew : 
Could prayers or tears of mine but win thee now 

From thy high walk around the starry thrones, 
So selfish this, my tears would cease to flow — 

My voice refuse to falter forth the tones. 



MY SISTER ELLEN. 

Sister Ellex, I've been dreaming 

Of a fair and happy time ; 
Gentle thoughts are round me gleaming. 

Thoughts of sunny girlhood's prime : 
Oh, the light, untutored fancies. 

Images so quaint and bold — 
Dim outlines of old romances. 

Forming childhood's age of gold ! 
Eternal spring was then above us, 

Sunshine cheered our every path; 
None then knew us but to love us — 

Winning ways sweet childhood hath. 

Thou art little Nelly, looking 

Up into my anxious face — 
I thy childish caprice brooking, 

As thy merry thoughts I trace : 
See thy dreamy blue eyes glancing 

From thy founts of light and glee. 
And thy little feet go dancing 

Like the waves upon the sea ! 
Tossing from thy snowy shoulder 

Golden curls with witching grace, 
Charming every new beholder 

With thine arch, expressive face. 
Sister Ellen ! I've been dreaming 

Of some lightsome summer eves. 
When the harvest-moon was beaming 

Softly through the dewy leaves — 
How among the flowers we wandered, 

Ti-eading light as summer air ; 
Looking upward, how we pondered 

On the dazzling glories there ! 
We were children then together, 

Though I older was in years, 
And life's dark and stormy weather 

Seemed like April's smiles and tears. 



FAUEWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY. 

Hauk I a solemn bell is peaUng 

From the far-off spirit clime ; 
Angel forms, expectant, kneeling 

On the outer shores sublime, 
Hither turn their eyes of splendor 

Piercing through the mists of time ! 

Thou art faintly, sadly sighing. 
Voyager through time with me ; 

Can it be, thou 'rt sinking — dying ? 
Can it be that I am free — 

Free to drink in Mfe immortal, 
Unrestrained now by thee 1 

Yes ! thine earthly days are numbered. 
Yet thou'rt cUnging round me still ; 

Still my drooping wings are cumbered 
By thy weak and fleshly will : 

Gently thus I loose thy claspings. 
Wishing thee no further ill. 

Though I've often bent upon thee 

A rebuking spirit's gaze. 
When thy spell was fully on me, 

In our early, youthful days, 
Sad and loath I am to leave thee, 

Treading Death's bewildering maze ! 

AH of enmity is banished 

As I hear thee moaning low, 
Pride and beauty have so vanished. 

Nothing can revive them now : 
See the hand of death triumphing 

In the dews upon thy brow ! 

Ah I thy heart is faintly tolling. 

Like a closely muflled bell. 
And the puiple rivers rolling 

'Neath thy bosom's gentle swell. 
Flow like waters when receding 

From a thirsty, springless well. 

What a weight is on thy bosom — 

What a palsy in thy hand ! 
Thus Death chilled fair Eden's blossom — 

Thus, at his august command. 
All of human birth and mixture 

Shuddering in his presence stand ! 

Let me, through thine eyelids closing, 
Look once more upon the earth; 

There thou soon wilt be reposing. 
Borne away from liome and hearth. 

Where thy footsteps once were greeted 
With the noisy shout of mirth. 

Hark ! what organ tones are swelling 
Through the spirit-realm on high ; 

Ransomed souls are sweetl}' telling 
Of the joys beyond the sk)' ; 

Let me here no longer linger. 
When the heavens are so nigh ! 

Life's companion ! thus we sever — 

Our short pilgrimage is done : 
We shall reunite for ever. 

Travel-stained and weary one. 
When the voice of God Eternal 

Wakes the dead with trumpet tone ! 



318 



REBECCA S. NICHOLS. 



LAMENT OF THE OLD YEAR. 

"I'm weary and old," said the dying Year, 

As tile sceptre fell from liis shrunken hand; 
" One foot on tlie earth, and one on the bier, 
I go, with a wail for the beautiful here, 
To the phantom years in the ghostly land. 

Thousht, like a river swift, sweeps o'er me now ; 

Backward I 'm borne to the eve of my birth ; 
Smooth, then, my wrinkled cheek, spotless my brow; 
Stjod I, with steady hand, held to the plough, 

Ready to furrow the beautiful earth ! 

Then, as I sped along, softly there came 

One with a flowing robe, silken and green ; 
Sweet was her siren voice — Spring was her name : 
Sunshine or shade, she was ever the same — 
Dazzling in beauty, and graceful in mien. 

Bride of my youthful days, gentle and fair, 
Low lies thy grave at the portals of Time ! 
Wrapt in thy shroud of long sunshiny hair, 
The hours upborne by the wings of the air. 
Entombed thee in love, singing dirges sublime. 

There on thy bosom wan, pulseless and cold. 

Lay thy three doves at rest, which thou didst bear ; 
First-born of early love — lambs of our fold. 
How, on their scented breath. Death feasted bold ! 
E'en May, the youngest one, fairest, was there. 

Then, as I turned aside, weeping for thee, 

Swift came another maid, laughing and bright ; 
She on my bosom hung, joyous and free, 
And in her dulcet tones warbled to me — 
Pouring her heart out in strains of delight. 

Bride of my sober prime, faded and gone. 
Thou wert to me as a beautiful dream ! 
Love in thy spirit dwelt, free on his throne. 
Held by thy ravishing sweetness alone. 
Till thou wert engulfed in oblivion's stream. 

Sad, then, my spirit grew — lonely I sighed ; 

All that I loved on earth fled from my grasp : 
Spring, in her beauty, first mournfully died — 
Summer I buried, too, close by her side, 

Wrenching the links of affection's strong clasp. 

Thin grew my whitened beard — moistened my eye; 

Faint was my voice's tone — languished my heart : 
Then, in my dreary age, Autumn drew nigh, 
Like a sweet angel of love from the sky. 

Ready to act the Samaritan's part. 

Oh, she with wisdom soothed ! cheerful her voice, 
Ringing at morn like a clear matin-bell ; 

Streams in my Summer's path seemed to rejoice; 

Spring was my first and my earliest choice. 
But Autumn I loved with a fervor as well. 

Oft when the glowing stars — footprints of God — 

Lit up the earth with a holier light, 
We o'er each pleasant place falt'ringly trod, 
Wailing the fate of the brown, fading sod. 

That shrunk from our steps as if fearing a blight. 
Down by a flashing rill, winding in shade, 

Leaping to sunlight in gladness and mirth, 
We, in a softened mood, pleasantly made 
A couch, where the streamlet a monody pla3'ed — 

A death song for one of the brightest of earth ! 



Pale grew the berries red, close at our feet ; 

Wan looked the waning moon over our head ; 
Then moaned the hollow winds, winged and fleet, 
And Autumn unfolded her white winding-sheet. 

While Winter approached and enshrouded the 
dead ! 
As I in voiceless grief over her hung, 

Through her half-frozen lips broken words came: 
Sweeter than all that the minstrel has sung. 
The death-stricken accents that fell from her tongue, 

For even in death she was lisping my name ! 

Down by her yawning tomb, wrinkled with care, 

Cheerless and lone t sat, stricken and old ; 
While my shrill piping voice poured on the air 
Tones like the voice of the spectre Despair, 
Calling his flock to their desolate fold ! 

Then did I journey on, leaning the while 
Faintly on Winter's staff, goaded by him : 

Ne'er on my shrivelled lips glimmered a smile — 

Wearily travelled we many a mile. 
The sun growing dark, and the stars shining dim. 

Through the old forests vast, leafless and brown, 

Fled we the sickle keen, wielded by Time : 
Thus ever reapeth he what hath been sown. 
Plucking the fruits which another hath grown. 
Golden sheaves binding in every clime. 

Down by the blackened stream, flowing from Death, 

Sit I, with folded hands, waiting my doom ; 
Numb are my aged limbs — frozen my breath; 
Soon shall the pearl-berried misletoe wreath 

Twme its green arms round the parted Year's 
tomb !" 
Thus sighed the dying year, palsied and old ; 

Feeble and few grew the words that he spoke ; 
Twelve had the bell with its iron tongue told 
When Time, in his office grown fearless and bold, 

With sharp-whetted scythe cut him down at a 
stroke ! 



THE ISLE OF DREAMS. 

I MET thee in the Isle of Dreams, 

Beloved of my soul — 
I met thee on the silver sands, 

Where Lethean rivers roll ; 
And by the flashing water-falls. 

That lulled the hours asleep. 
Thy spirit whispered unto mine 

The vows it may not keep 

I met thee in the Isle of Dreams — 

No fairer land may bloom 
Among the island-stars that crest 

The midnight's heavy gloom ; 
The lilies blossomed in our path. 

Wild roses on the spray. 
And young birds from the wilderness 

Sang each a dreamy lay. 

Our steps fell lightly as we pressed 
The green, enchanted ground. 

For love was swelling in our hearts. 
And in the air around : 



REBECCA S. NICHOLS. 



319 



All, all was sunshine, bliss, and light, 

Beloved of my soul. 
When in the Isle of Dreams we met, 

Where Lethean rivers roll 

Then tread again the sounding shores 

That echo in my dreams, 
And walk beneath the rosy sky 

That through my vision gleams ; 
Oh meet me, meet me yet once more, 

Beloved of my soul. 
Within the lovely Isle of Dreams, 

Where Lethean rivers roll I 



THE SHADOW. 

Twice beside the crumbling well 

Where the lichen clingeth fast — 
Twice, the shadow on them fell. 

And the breeze went wailing past. 
" Shines the moon this eve as brightly 

As the harvest-moon may shine ; 
Stands each star, that glimmers nightly, 

Like a saint within its shrine : 
Whence the shade then, whence the shadow ? 

Canst thou tell, sweet lady mine V 

But the lady's cheek was pale. 

And her lips were snowy white. 
As she clasped her silken veil. 

Floating in the silver Ught : 
Like an angel's wing it glistened — 

Like a sybil seemed the maid ; 
But in vain the lover listened. 

Silence on her lips was laid ! 
Though they moved, no sound had broken 

Through the stillness of the glade. 

Brighter grew her burning eyes — 

Wan and thin the rounded cheek : 
Was it terror, or surprise, 

That forbade the lips to speak f 
To his heart, then, creeping slowly. 

Came a strange and deadly fear ; 
Words and sounds profane, unholy. 

Stole into his shrinking ear — 
And the moon sunk sudden downward, 

Leaving earth and heaven drear ! 

Slowly from the lady's lips 

Burst a deep and heavy sigh — 
As from some long, dark eclipse. 

Rose the red moon in the sky : 
Saw he then the lady leaning 

Cold and fainting by the well ; 
Eyes once filled with tender meaning 

Closed beneath some hidden spell : 
What was heard he dared not whisper. 

What he feared were death to tell ! 

The little hand was wondrous fair 
Which to him so wildly clung — 

Raven was the glossy hair 

Then from off her forehead flung ; 

Much too fair that hand for staining 
With a crime of darkest dye : 



But the moon again is waning 
In the pale and starless sky — 

Hark ! what words are slowly falling 
On the breeze that swept them by T 

" Touch her not !" t'ne voice it said — 

" Wrench thy mantle from her grasp ! 
Thus the disembodied dead 

Warns from that polluting clasp. 
Touch her not, but still look on her — 

All an angel seemeth she ; 
Yet, the guilty stains upon her 

Shame the Fiend's dark company ! 
But, her hideous crime is nameless 

Under heaven's canopy." 

Twice, beside the crumbling well. 

Where the lichen clingeth fast — 
Twice the shadow on them fell. 

And the breeze went wailing past : 
Twice the voice's hollow warning 

Pierced the haunted midnight air ! 
Then the golden light of morning 

Streamed upon the lady there : 
They who found her, stark and lonely. 

Said the corse was very fair. 



LITTLE NELL. 

Spbing, with breezes cool and airy, 
Opened on a little fairy ; 
Ever restless, making merry. 
She, with pouting lips of cherry, 
Lisped the words she could not master. 
Vexed that she might speak no faster — 
Laughing, running, playing, dancing. 
Mischief all her joys enhancing — 
Full of baby-mirth and glee, 
It was a joyous sight to see 

Sweet Little Nell ! 

Summer came, the green earth's lover. 
Ripening the tufted clover — 
Calling down the glittering showers. 
Breathing on the buds and flowers — 
Rivalling young pleasant May 
In a generous holyday ! 
Smallest insects hummed a tune 
Through the blessed nights of June : 
And the maiden sang her song 
Through the days so bright and long — 
Dear Little Nell ! 

Autumn came ! the leaves were falling — 
Death the little one was calling : 
Pale and wan she grew, and weakly. 
Bearing all her pains so meekly. 
That to us she seemed still dearer 
As the trial-hour drew nearer. 
But she left us hopeless, lonely. 
Watching by her semblance only : 
And a little grave they made her. 
In the churchyard cold they laid her — 
Laid her softly down to rest. 
With a white rose on her breast — 
Poor Little Nell ! 



320 



REBECCA S. NICHOLS. 



THE LITTLE FLOCK. 

" We were not many" — we who stood 

In cliildhood round our mother's knee — - 
A. laughing, wild, and wayward brood 
Of many a changeful mind and mood, 
And hearts as light as hearts could be. 

" We were not many" — we who played, 

When breathless came the scorching noon, 
Out in the leafy, grassy shade. 
The old and fragrant orchard made, 
As lengthened shadows fell in June. 

How sweetly smelled the upturned mould 

Beneath the green and bending bough, 

For there, when days were moist and cold. 

The grass was sown ere spring was old — 

I 'd give the world to see it now ! 

" We were not many" — we who drew 
At evening round the blazing hearth. 
To road, how from the harebells blue 
The tiny elves would drink the dew, 
Ere fairy forms forsook the earth. 

" We were not many" — we who heard, 
From lips we loved at eve and morn. 

The teachings of the holy word. 

When youthful hearts to prayer were stuTed, 
And love of meek-eyed Faith was born. 

" We were not many" — death has spared 

A larger flock to mother's tears. 
And when his icy arm was bared, 
We scarcely thought that he had dared 

To touch the one so young in years. 

" We were not many" — we who wept 

To see his star in swift decline : 
Five golden autumns he has slept — 
Five budding springs the moss has crept 

Around his couch beneath the pine. 

" We are not many" — when we stand 

Where now he sleeps, at fall of dew ; 
When loving May, with breezes bland, 
Has smoothed the turf with angel hand, 
And decked it round with violets blue. 

" We are not many" — we who press 

With trembling lips Life's brimming cup : 

One craving draughts of happiness — 

Another, it may be, would bless 

The wave that dashed death's waters up. 

" We are not many" — doubts and fears, 

And faded hopes of earth's renown, 
And broken faith, and toil and tears. 
Have, in the winepress of our years. 

Been heaped, and crushed, and trodden down ! 

" We were not many" — we who stood 
In childhood round our mother's knee : 

But one from out the laughing brood 

Has borne unto his solitude 

The dreams he dreampt in infancy. 



MUSINGS. 

How like a conqueror the king of day 

Folds back the curtains of his orient conch. 
Bestrides the fleecy clouds, and speeds his way 

Through skies made brighter by his burning 
touch ; 
For as a warrior from the tented field. 

Victorious hastes his wearied limbs to rest, 
So doth the sun his brazen sceptre yield, 

And sink, fair night, upon thy gentle breast. 

All hail, sad Vesper ! on thy girdled throne 

Thou sitst a queen. Oh, twilight watcher-star, 
M^ith gliding step thou comest forth alone. 

Pale, dreamy dweller of the realms afar; 
And when at eve's most holy, chastened hour, 

I watch each lesser star within its shrine. 
How do I miss the strange, mysterious power 

That chains my spirit to thine orb divine. 

Fair Vesper ! when thy golden tresses gleam 

Amid the banners of the sunset sky. 
Thy spirit floats on every radiant beam 

That gilds with beauty thy sweet home on high : 
Then hath my soul its hour of deepest bliss, 

And gentle thoughts like angels round me 
throng. 
Breathing of worlds (oh, how unlike to this !) 

Where dwells eternal melody and song. 

Star of the twilight ! thou wert loved by one 

Whose spirit late hath passed away from earth. 
Who parted from us when the wailing tone 

Of some lone winds hushed gentle summer's 
mirth : 
Yet, though we missed her at the eventide, 

And eyes gazed sadly on the vacant chair. 
Though from the hearth her music-tones have 
died, 

And gone glad laughter that resounded there — 

Still from her high and holy place above 

None would recall her to this earthly sphere, 
Or seek to win her from that home of love 

To tread the paths of sin and soitow here : 
But clouds are gathering round fair Cynthia's 
home. 

And dark and heavy grows the sultry air. 
While, one by one, the lights in yon vast dome 

Fade and go out as Death were busy there. 

And she, pale spirit of the midnight skies, 

Whose tears of light were streaming o'er the 
heath, 
Now seems, unto my wakeftil, watching eyes. 

Like some lone weeper in the house of death ! 
The storm hath burst — the lighti.ing's angry eye 

Glanceth around me, and the hoarse winds tell 
The raging tempest's might and majesty. 

Bright thoughts have vanished — gentle star, fare- 
well ! 



JULIA WARD HOWE, 



Mrs. Julia Howe is a daughter of the 
late eminent banker Samuel Ward, and a sis- 
ter of Samuel Ward, junior, one of our most 
accomplished scholars. In the spring of 
1S43 she was married to Dr. S. G. Howe, 
of Boston, so well known to his countrymen, 
and indeed to mankind, as one of the most 
active and wise of living philanthropists. 
Mrs. Howe was educated by the best mas- 
ters, and her native intelligence rewarded a 
careful culture with fruits of grace and beau- 
ty which detain the admiration of society. 
One of her teachers was the much-lamented 
Schlesinger, of whom an elegant memoir 
was published by Mr. Ward, at the close of 
which he observes: "Returning to New York 
from a visit to Boston, on the morning of the 
twelfth of June, the writer of this memoir 
was overpowered by the sad intelligence of 
the demise of Mr. Schlesinger — whom he 
loved as a brother, and of whose danger he 



had no suspicion. He gradually gathered 
from a pupil of the deceased, that he had , 
died in the night of the eighth, and been bu- 
ried, the Sunday after, in the Marble Ceme- 
tery, whither his mortal remains were fol- 
lowed by his friends and his Brothers of the 
' Concordia,' who sang a requiem over his 
grave. When he asked her for further de- 
tails, turning away to hide her tears, she 
handed him these lines." The pupil here 
referred to is Mrs. Howe, and the lines are 
the poem entitled The Burial of Schlesinger, 
which may be ranked among the finest pro- 
ductions of feminine genius. 

Mrs. JuliaWard, the mother of Mrs. Howe, 
was a woman of taste and various acquire- 
ments, and her literary abilities are illustra- 
ted in many brilliant occasional poems, in 
English and French, of which some speci- 
mens are furnished in an earlier part of the 
present volume. 



THE BURIAL OF SCHLKSINGEH,. 

Sab music breathes upon the air, 

And steps come mournfully and slow ; 

Heavy is the load we bear, 

Fellow-men our burthen share, 
Death has laid our brother low. 

Ye have heard our joyous strain. 
Listen to our notes of wo ! 

Do ye not remember him 
Whose finger, from the thrilling wire. 
Now drew forth tears, now tones of fire 1 
Ah ! that hand is cold for ever : 
Gone is now life's fitful fever — 
We sing his requiem. 

We are singing him to rest — 
He will rise a spirit blest. 

Sing it softly, sing it slowly — 
Let each note our sorrow tell, 
For it is our last farewell, 

And his grave is lone and lowly. 

We sorrow for thee, brother ! 
We grieve that thou must lie 
Far from the spot where thy fathers sleep ; 
I'hou camest o'er the briny deep 
In a stranger land to die. 

We bear thee gently, brother. 
To thy last resting-place ; 



Soon shall the earth above thee close, 
And the dark veil of night repose 
For ever on thy face. 

We placed the last flowers, brother, 
Upon thy senseless brow ; 
We kissed that brow before 't was hid, 
We wept upon thy coffin-lid, 
But all unmoved wert thou. 

We've smoothed the green turf, brother, 

Above thy lowly head ; 
Earth in her breast receive thee : 
Oh, it is sad to leave thee. 

Alone in thy narrow bed ! 

Thou art not with us, brother — 
Yet, in yon blissful land, 

Perhaps, thou still canst hear us — 

Perhaps thou hoverest near us 
And smilest as the choral band, 
Which once obeyed thy master hand. 

Now linger with their tears to leave 

The sod that se;ds tliy gi-ave. 

The sun is sinking, brother. 

And with it our melody. 
The dying cadence of our rite 
Is mingled with the dying light. 
Oh, brother ! by that fading ray. 
And by this mournful parting lay. 
We will remember thee. 
321 



332 



JULIA WARD HOWE. 



The sculptor, in his chiselled stone, 

The painter, in his colors blent, 
The bard, in numbers all his own, 

Raises himself his monument : 
But he, whose every touch could wake 

A passion, and a thought control. 
He who, to bless the ear, did make 

Music of his very soul ; 
Who bound for us, in golden chains, 

The golden links of harmony — 
Naught is leil us of his strauis. 

Naught but their fleeting memory : 
Then, while a trace of him remains, 

Shall we not cherish it tenderly 1 



WORDSWOHTH. 

Bark of the unseen haven, 

Mind of unearthly mood. 
Like to the prophet's raven, 

Thou bringest me heavenly food ; 
Or Uke some mild dove winguig 

Its way from cloudless skies. 
Celestial odors bringing, 
And in its glad soul singing 

The songs of paradise. 

Surely thou hast been nearer 

The bounds of day and night — 
Thy vision has been clearer, 

And loftier thy flight. 
And thou to GoJ art dearer 

Than many men of might. 
Speak ! for to thee we listen 

As never to bard before, 
And faded eyes shall glisten 

That thought to be bright no more. 

Oh, tell us of yonder heaven. 

And the world that lies within ; 
Tell us of the happy spirits 

To whom we are near of kin ; 
Tell of the songs of rapture. 

Of the stars that never set; 
Do the angels call us brothers — 

Does our Father love us yet 1 

Speak, for our souls are thirsting 

For the light of righteousness ; 
Speak, for our bosoms are bursting 

With a desolate loneliness ; 
Our hearts arc worn and weary, 

Our robes are travel-soiled — 
For through a desert dreary 

Our wandering feet have toiled. 

Those to whom life looks brighter 

May ask on earthlier strain : 
A gayer spell and a lighter 

Shall hold them in its chain ; 
But to those who have drunk deepest 

Of the cup of joy and grief, 
The tuneful tears thou weepest 

Do minister relief. 

Speak, for the earth is throbbing 

With a wild sense of pain ; 
The wintry winds are sobbing 



The requiem of the slain ; 
Dimly our lamps are burning. 

And gladly we list to thee, 
With a strange and mystic yearning 

Toward the home where we would be : 
Turn from the rhyme of weary Time, 

And sing of Eternity ! 
Tell of the sacred mountains 

Where prophets in prayer have kneeled ; 
Tell of the glorious fountains 

That soon shall be unsealed ; 
Tell of the quiet regions 

WTiere those we love are fled ; 
Tell of the angel legions 

That guard the blessed dead ! 
Tell us of the sea of glass. 

And of the icy river; 
To those who its waves must pass 

Thy message of love deliver. 
Strike, strike thy harp of many lays, 
And we will join the song of praise 
To Him that sitteth upon the throne 

Of life and love for ever ! 



WOMAN. 

A VESTAL priestess, proudly pure. 

But of a meek and quiet spirit; 
With soul all dauntless to endure. 

And mood so calm that naught can stir it, 
Save when a thought most deeply thrilling 
Her eyes with gentlest teai's is filling. 
Which seem with her true words to start 
From the deep fountain at her heart. 
A mien that neither seeks nor shuns 

The homage scattered in her way ; 
A love that hath few favored ones. 

And yet for all can work and pray ; 
A smile wherein each mortal reads 
The very sympathy he needs ; 
An eye Uke to a mystic book 

Of lays that bard or prophet sings, 
Which keepeth for the holiest look 

Of hohest love its deepest things. 
A form to which a king had bent. 
The fireside's dearest ornament — 
Known in the dwellings of the poor 
Better than at the rich man's door; 
A life that ever onward goes, 
Yet in itself has deep repose. 
A vestal priestess, maid, or wife — 

Vestal, and vowed to ofl^er up 
The innocence of a holy life 

To Him who gives the mingled cup ; 
With man its bitter sweets to share. 
To live and love, to do and dare ; 
His prayer to breathe, his tears to shed. 
Breaking to him the heavenly bread 
Of hopes which, all too high for earth, 
Have yet in her a mortal birth. 
This is the woman I have di'eamed, 
And to my childish thought she seemed 
The woman I myself should be : 
Alas ! I would tliat I were she. 



JULIA WARD HOWE. 



323 



TO A BEAUTIFUL STATUE. 

I WOULD there were a blush upon thy cheek, 
That I might deem thee human, not divine ! 
I would those sweet yet silent Ups might speak, 
Even to say, " I never can be thine !" 
I would thine eye might shun my ardent gaze. 
Then timidly return it ; 'neath the fold 
Of the white vest thy heart beat to the praise 
Responsive that thou heedest not. I hold 
Thy slender hand in mine : oh, why is it so cold f 

Statue ! I call on thee ! I bid thee wake 
To life and love. The world is bright and fair ; 
The flowers of spring blush in each verdant brake ; 
The birds' sweet song makes glad the perfiimed air. 
And thou alone feel'st not its balmy breath. 
Oh ! by what spell, once dear, still unforgot. 
Shall I release thee from this seeming death"! [spot? 
What prayer shall charm thee from yon haunted 

Awake ! I summon thee ! In vain : she hears me not. 
What power hath bound thee thus 1 Devoid of 

sense, 
Buried in thine own beauty, speechless, pale — 
What strange, stern destiny, what dire otTence, 
Hath drawn around thy li%'ing charms this veil ? 
Didst thou, like Niobe, behold the death 
Of all thy loved ones? Did so sad a sight 
Urge from thy bosom forth the panting breath. 
Steal from thy tearful eye its liquid hght. 

And wrap thy fainting spirit in eternal night ? 

Or wert thou false, and merciless as fair — 
And is it thus thy perfidy is wroken 1 
Didst thou with smiles the trusting soul ensnare. 
And smile again to see it crushed and broken 1 
Oh, no ! Heaven wished to rescue from the tomb 
A form so faultless ; and its mandate high 
Arrested thee in youth's transcendent bloom. 
Congealed in marble thy last parting sigh, [die. 

Soothed thee to wakeless sleep, nor suffered thee to 
For sure thou wert not always thus ! The rush 
Of life's warm stream hath ht thy vacant glance. 
Tinting thy pallid cheek with maiden blush ; 
Those fairy limbs have sported in the dance. 
Before they settled thus in quiet rest ; 
Thine ear the lyre's numbers hath received. 
And told their import to the throbbing breast ; 
Thy heart hath hoped and feared, hath joyed and 
grieved. 

Hath loved and trusted, and hath been deceived. 

Sleep on ! The memory of thy grief or wrongs 
With the forgotten past have long since fled ; 
And pitying Fate thy slumber still prolongs, 
Lest thou shouldst wake, to sorrow for the dead. 
Oh, should thine eyes unclose again on earth. 
To find thyself uncared for, and alone — 
The mates of thy young days of laughing mirth. 
And he, more dear than all, for ever gone — 
With bitter tears thou 'dst ask again a heart of stone. 

Sleep on in peace ! thou shall not sleep for ever : 
Soon on thine echoing ear the voice shall thrill. 
Whose well-known tone alone thy bonds may 
And bid thy spirit burst its cerements chill : [sever. 
Thy frozen heart its pulses shall resume, 



Thine eye with glistening tears of rapture swell. 
Thou shalt arise in never-fading bloom ! 
The voice of deathless Love must break the spell : 
Until that time shall come, sweet dreamer, fare thee 

well! 

♦ 

WANING. 

The Moon looks dimly from the skies. 
Of half her queenlike beauty shorn ; 

A sad and shrouded thing, she Ues 

Where she, scarce three weeks since, was bom. 

As from the darkness forth she sprang, 

And it to her a cradle gave. 
So on its bosom she must hang 

Trembling, till it become her grave. 

But while she sees the stars so bright. 
The Moon can not her death deplore. 

For all the heavens are sown with light. 
Though from herself it come no more. 

Pale Moon ! and I like thee am sinking 

Into my natural nothingness ; 
I who, hke thee, from heaven was drinking 

The godlike power to love and bless. 

This shroud of night is dark and chill, 
And yet I can not think to mourn ; 

The skies I filled are radiant still. 
And will be bright when I am gone ! 



LEES FROM THE CUP OF LIFE. 

OscE I was sad, and well could weep, 
Now I am wild, and I will laugh ; 

Pour out for me libations deep ! 

The blood of trampled grapes I'll quaff, 

And mock at all who idly mourn. 
And smite the beggar with his staff. 

Oh ! let us hold carousal dread 
Over our early pleasures gone. 

Youth is departed, love is dead ; 
Oh wo is me that I was born ! 

Yet fill the cup, pass round the jest — 
Methinks I could laugh grief to scorn. 

'Tis well to be a thing alone. 

For whom no creature cares or grieves, 
To build on desert sands a throne. 

And spread a couch on wintry leaves, 
Ruthless and hopeless, worn and wise — 

The fool, the imbecile, believes ! 

Make me a song whose sturdy rhyme 
Shall bid defiance bold to Wo. 

Though caitiff wretch, come down to me ; 
See, at thv gate my trump I blow, 

And, armed with rude indifference. 
To thee thy scornful glove I throw ! 

Ah me ! unequal, bootless fight ! 

Ah, cuiras, that betrays my trust ! 
Sorrow's stern angel bears a dart 

Fatal to all of mortal dust; 
He is a spirit, I of clay : 
He can not die— alas, I must ! 



324 JULIA WARD HOWE. 


SPEAK, FOR THY SERVANT HEARETH. 


Thine enemies before thy face 




Are scattered in dismay : 


Speak, for thy servant heareth; 


Speak, Lord, thy servant heareth, 


Alone, in my lowly bed, 


And heareth to obey. 


Before I laid me down to rest; 


I've stood before thee all my days — 


My nightly prayer was said ; 


Have ministered to thee ; 


And naught my spirit feareth, 


But in the hour of darkness first 


In darkness or by day : 


Thou speakest unto me. 

And now, the night appeareth 

More beautiful than day : 


Speak, for thy servant heareth, 


And heareth to obey. 


I 've stood before thine altar, 


Speak, Lord, thy servant heareth, 


A child before thy might ; 


And heai-eth to obey. 


No breath within thy temple stirred 




The dim and cloudy light ; 




And still I knew that thou wert there, 




Teaching my heart to say — 


A MOTHER'S FEARS. 


" Speak, for thy servant heareth, 
And heareth to obey." 


I AM one who holds a treasure, 
A gem of wondrous cost ; 


God, my flesh may tremble 


But I mar my heart's deep pleasure 


When thou speakest to my soul ; 


With the fear it may be lost. 


But it can not shun thy presence blest, 
Or shrink from thy control. 


God gives not many mothers 
So fair a child as thou, 


A joy my spirit cheereth 


And those he gives to others 


That can not pass away : 


In death are oft laid low. 


Speak, for thy servant heareth, 




And heareth to obey. 


I, too, might know that sorrow, 


Thou biddest me to utter 

Words that I scarce may speak. 
And mighty tilings are laid on me. 


To stand by thy dying bed, 
And wish each weary morrow 
Only that I were dead. 


A helpless one and weak; 


Oh ! would that I could bear thee, 


Darkly thy truth declareth 


As I bore thee 'neath my heart. 


Its purpose and its way : 


And every sorrow spare thee. 


Speak, for thy servant heareth. 


And bid each pain depart ! 


And heareth to obey. 


Tell me some act of merit 


And shouldst thou be a stranger 


By which I may deserve 


To that which thou hast made 1 


To hold the angel spirit. 


Oh ! ever be about my path. 


And its sweet life preserve. 


And hover near my bed. 
Lead me in every step I take. 

Teach me each word I say : 
Speak, for thy servant heareth. 

And heareth to obey. 


When I watch the little creature, 
If tears of rapture flow — 

If I worship each fair feature — 
All mothers would do so. 


How hath thy glory lighted ^ 
My lonely place of rest ; 

How sacred now shall be to me 
The spot which thou hast blest ! 


And if I fain would shield her 
From suffering, on my breast. 

Strive every joy to yield her, 
'T is thus that I am blest. 


If aught of evil should draw nigh 


Oh ! for some heavenly token. 


To bring me shame and fear. 


By which I may be sure 


My steadfast soul shall make reply, 


The vase shall not be broken — 


" Depart, for God is near !" 


Dispersed the essence pure ! 


I bless thee that thou speakest 


Then spake the Angel of Mothers 


Thus to an humble child ; 


To me, in gentle tone : 


The God of Jacob calls to me 


" Be kind to the children of others, 


In gentle tones and mild ; 


And thus deserve thine own." 



AMELIA B. WELBY. 



Amelia B. Welbt, whose maiden name 
was CoppucK, was born in the small town 
ofSt. Michael's, inMaryland, in 1821. When 
she was about fourteen years of age, her fa- 
ther removed to Lexington and afterward to 
Louisville, in Kentucky, where, in 1838, she 
was married to Mr. George B. Welby, a mer- 
chant of that city. 

Mrs. Welby made herself known at a very 
early age by numerous poetical pieces print- 
ed, under the signature of "Amelia, "in the 
Louisville Journal, which is edited by Mr. 
George D. Prentice, (a gentleman deserving 
as much reputation for his literary abilities 
as for his wit,) and has been a medium for 
the original appearance of much of the best 
poetry of the West. 

In 1844 a collection of her poems appeared 
in a small octavo volume at Boston, and their 
popularity has been so great that it has since 
passed through four or five large editions. 
This success must have surprised as much 
as it gratified the amiable and modest poet, 
for, writing to me in the summer of 1843, 
she observed in reference to a suggestion I 
had made to her — " My husband and friends 
here also desire greatly to have a collection 
of my little poems published, but really I am 
afraid they are not worth it. Many of them 



were written when I was so very young, that 
at the sober age of twenty-two I can scarcely 
read them without a blush." With the same 
letter she sent me themanuscript of oneof her 
longest poems, entitled Pulpit Eloquence. It 
is now before me, and though scarcely a be- 
liever in Mr. Poe's ingenious speculations 
upon " autography," I see in the elaborate 
neatness and distinctness of her round and 
regular handwriting aa indication of the pe- 
culiar character of her genius, which delights 
in grace and repose, in forms of delicacy and 
finished elegance. 

There are in the writings of Mrs. Welby 
few indications of creative power ; she walks 
the Temple of the Muses with no children of 
the imagination ; but her fancy is lively, dis- 
criminating, and informed by a minute and 
intelligent observation of nature, and she has 
introduced into poetry some new and beau- 
tiful imagery. Her sentiment has the rela- 
tion to passion which her fancy sustains to 
the imagination. No painful experience has 
tried her heart's full energies ; but her feel- 
ings are natural and genuine ; and we are 
sure of the presence of a womanly spirit, 
reverencing the sanctities and immunities of 
life, and sympathizing with whatever ad- 
dresses the sense of beauty. 



THE RAINBOW. 

I soMETi.iiEs have thoughts, in my loneliest hours, 
That lie on my heart hke the dew on the flowers, 
Of a ramble I took one bright afternoon 
When my heart was as light as a blossom in June ; 
Thegreeneartliwas moist with thelatefallenshovvers, 
The breeze fluttered down and blew open the flowers. 
While a single white cloud, to its haven of rest 
On the white wing of Peace, floated ofl" in the west. 

As I threw back my tresses to catch the cool breeze. 

That scattered the rain-drops and dimpled the seas, 

Far up the blue sky a fair rainbow unrolled 

Its soft-tinted pinions of purple and gold. 

'T was bom in a moment, yet, quick as its birth. 

It had stretched to the uttermost ends of the earth, 

And, fair as an angel, it floated as free. 

With a wing on tlie earth and a wing on the sea. 

How calm was the ocean ! how gentle its swell ! 
Like a woman's soft bosom it rose and it fell ; 



While its light sparkling waves, stealing laughingly 

o'er. 
When they saw the fair rainbow, knelt down on the 

shore. 
No sweet hymn ascended, no murmur of prayer, 
Yet I felt that the spirit of worship was there, 
And bent my young head, in devotion and love, 
'Neath the form of the angel that floated above. 
How wide was the sweep of its beautiful wings ! 
How boundless its circle, how radiant its rings ! 
If I looked on the sky, 'twas suspended in air; 
If I looked on the ocean, the rainbow was there ; 
Thus forming a girdle, as brilliant and whole 
As the thoughts of the rainbow, that circled my souL 
Like the wing of the Deity, calmly unfurled. 
It bent from the cloud and encircled the world. 
There are moments, I think, when the spirit receives 
Whole volumes of thought on its unwritten leaves. 
When the folds of the heart in a moment unclose 
Like the innermost leaves from the heart of a rose. 
325 



32G 



AMELIA B. WELBY. 



And thus, when the rainbow had passed from the sky, 
The thoughts it awoke were too deep to pass by ; 
It left my full soul, like the wing of a dove, 
AH fluttering with pleasure and fluttering with love. 

I know that each moment of rapture or pain 
But shortens the links in hfe's mystical chain; 
I know that my form, like that bow from the wave, 
Must pass from the earth, and lie cold in the grave ; 
Yet oh ! when Death's shadows my bosom encloud, 
When I shrink at the thought of the cofhn and shroud. 
May Hope, like the rainbow, my spirit enfold 
In her beautiful pinions of purple and gold ! 



PULPIT ELOQUENCE. 

The day was dechning : the breeze in its glee 
Had left the fair blossoms to sing on the sea, 
As the sun in its gorgeousness, radiant and still. 
Dropped down like a gem from the brow of the hill ; 
One tremulous star, in the glory of June, 
Came out with a smile and sat down by the Noon, 
Asshe graced her blue throne with the pride of a queen, 
The smiles of her loveliness gladdening the scene. 

The scene was enchanting! in distance away 
Rolled thefoam-crested waves of the Chesapeake bay. 
While bathed in the moonlight the village was seen. 
With the church in the distance that stood on the 

green, 
The soft-sloping meadows lay brightly unrolled 
With their mantles of verdure and blossoms of gold, 
And the earth in her beauty, forgetting to grieve, 
Lay asleep in her bloom on the bosom of eve. 

A light-hearted child, I had wandered away [day ; 
From the spot where my footsteps had gambolled all 
And free as a bird's was the song of my soul, 
As I heard the wild waters exultingly roll. 
White, lightening my heart as T sported along 
With bursts of low laughter and snatches of song, 
I struck in the pathway half worn o'er the sod 
By the feet that went up to the worship of God. 

As I traced its green windings, a murmur of prayer 
With the hymn of the worshippers rose on the air, 
And, drawn by the links of its sweetness along, 
I stood unobserved in the midst of the throng : 
For a while my young spirit still wandered about 
With the birds and the winds that were singing 

without, 
But birds, waves, and zephyrs, were quickly forgot 
In one angel-like being that brightened the spot. 

In stature majestic, apart from the throng 
He stood in his beauty, the theme of my song! 
His cheek pale with fervor — the blue orbs above 
Lit up with the splendors of youth and of love ; 
Yet the heart-glowing raptures, that beamed from 

those eyes. 
Seemed saddened bysorrowsand chastened by sighs. 
As if the young heart in its bloom had grown cold 
With its loves unrequited, its sorrows untold. 

Such language as his I may never recall. 
But his theme was salvation — salvation to all : 
And thesoulsofathousandinecstasyhung [tongue. 
On the manna-hke sweetness that dropped from his 



Not alone on the ear his wild eloquence stole : 
Enforced by each gesture it sank to the soul. 
Till it seemed that an angel had brightened the sod 
And brought to each bosom a message from God. 

He spoke of the Savior : what pictures he drew ! 
The scene of his sufferings rose clear on my view ; 
The cross, the rude cross where he suffered and died, 
The gush of bright crimson that flowed from his side, 
The cup of his sorrows, the wormwood and gall, 
The darkness that mantled the earth as a pall. 
The garland of thorns, and the demon-like crews. 
Who knelt as they scoffed him — " Hail, King of 
the Jews !" 

He spake, and it seemed that his statue-like form 
Expanded and glowed as his spirit grew warm — 
His tone so impassioned, so melting his air, 
As, touched with compassion, he ended in prayer, 
His hands clasped above him, his blue orbs upthrown, 
Still pleading for sins that were never his own. 
While that mouth, where such sweetness ineffable 

clung, 
Stillspoke, though expression had died on his tongue. 

God ! what emotions the speaker awoke ! 
A mortal he seemed — yet a deity spoke ; 

A man — yet so far from humanity riven ! 
On earth — yet so closely connected with heaven ! 
How oft in my fancy I've pictured him there, 
As he stood in that triumph of passion and prayer, 
With his eyesclosedinrapture, their transienteclipse 
Made bright by the smiles that illumined his lips. 

There's a charm in delivery, a magical art. 
That thrills, like a kiss, from the lip to the heart; 
'Tis the glance, the expression, the well-chosen word, 
By whose magic the depths of the spirit are stirred ; 
Thesmile, the mute gesture, the soul-startling pause, 
The eye's sweet expression, that melts while it awes, 
The Up's soft persuasion — its musical tone — 
Oh such was the charm of that eloquent one ! 

The time is long past, yet how clearly defined 
That bay, church, and village, float up on my mind ! 

1 see amid azure the moon in her pride. 

With the sweet little trembler that sat by her side ; 
I hear the blue waves, as she wanders along. 
Leap up in their gladness and sing her a song, 
And I tread in the pathway half worn o'er the sod 
By the feet that went up to the worship of God. 

The time is long past, yet what visions I see ! 
The past, the dim past, is the present to me ; [throng : 
I am standing once more mid that heart-stricken 
A vision floats up — 'tis the theme of my song — 
All glorious and bright as a spirit of air. 
The light like a halo encncling his hair; 
As I catch the same accents of sweetness and love, 
He whispers of Jesus, and points us above. 

How sweet to my heart is the picture I Ve traced ! 
Its chain of bright fancies seemed almost effiiced, 
Till Memory, the fond one, that sits in the soul. 
Took up the frail links, and connected the whole : 
As the dew to the blossom, the bud to the bee. 
As the scent to the rose, are those memories to me ; 
Roimd the chords of my heart they have tremblingly 
And the echo it gives is the song I have sung, [clung. 



AMELIA B. WELBY. 



327 



ON ENTERING THE MAMMOTH CAVE. 

Hush! for my heart-blood curdles as we enter 

To glide in gloom these shadowy realms about ; 
Oh ! what a scene the round globe to its centre, 

To form this awful cave, seems hollowed out ! 
Yet pause — no mystic word hath yet been spoken 

To win us entrance to this awful sphere — 
A whispered prayer must be our watchword token. 
And peace — like that around us — peace unbroken 

The passport here. 
And now farewell, ye birds and blossoms tender. 

Ye glistening leaves by morning dews impearled. 
And you, ye beams that light with softened splendor 

The glimmering glories of yon outer world ! 
While thus we pause these silent arches under, 

To you and yours a v.'ild farewell we wave. 
For oh ! perhaps this awful spot may sunder 
Our hearts from all we love — this world of wonder 

May be our grave. 
And yet farewell ! the faintly flickering torches 

Light our lone footsteps o'er the silent sod ; 
And now all hail, ye everlasting arches. 

Ye dark doQiinions of an unseen God ! 
Who would not for this sight the bliss surrender 

Of all the beauties of yon sunny sphere. 
And break the sweetest ties, however tender. 
To be the witness of the silent splendor 

That gi'eets us here ! 
Ye glittering caves, ye high, o'erhangmg arches, 

A pilgrim-band wc glide amid your gloom. 
With breathless lips, and high, uplifted torches. 

All fancifully decked in cave-costume ; 
Far from the day's glad beams, and songs, and flowers, 

We've come with spell-touched hearts, ye countless 
To glide enchanted, for a few brief hours, [caves, 
Through the calm beauty of your awful bowers 

And o'er your waves ! 
Beautiful cave ! that all my soul entrances. 

Known as the wonder of the West so long. 
Oh 'twere a fate beyond my wildest fancies, 

Could I but shrine you now as such in song ! 
But 'tis in vain — the untaught child of Nature, 

I can not vent the thoughts that through me flow, 
Yet none tire less is graved thine every feature 
Upon the wild, imaginative creature 

That hails you now ! 
Palace of Nature ! with a poet's fancies 

I 've oftimes pictured thee in dreams of bliss. 
And glorious scenes were given to my glances, 

But never gazed I on a scene like this ! 
Compared with thine, what are the awful wonders 

Of the deep, fathomless, unbounded sea 1 
Or the storm-cloud whose lance of lightningsunders 
'i'he solid oak 1 — or even thine awful thunders, 

Niagara ! 
Hark ! hear ye not those echoes ringing after 

Our gliding steps — my spirit faints with fear — 
Those mocking tones, like subterranean laughter — 

Or does the brain grow wild with wandering here 7 
There may be spectres wild and forms appalling 

Our wandermg eyes, where'er we rove, to greet — 
Methinks I hear their low, sad voices calUng 
Upon us now, and far away the falling 
Of phantom feet. 



The glittering dome, the arch, the towering column. 
Are sights that greet us now on every hand. 

And all so wild, so strange, so sweetly solemn — 
So like one's fancies formed of fairy land ! 

A nd these, then, are your works, mysterious powers ! 
Your spells are o'er, around us, and beneath. 

These opening aisles, these crystal fi-uits and flowers. 

And glittering grots, and high-arched, beauteous 
As still as death ! [bowers, 

But yet lead on ; perhaps than this fair vision, 
Some lovelier yet in darkling distance lies — 

Some cave of beauty, like those realms Elysian 
That ofttimes open on poetic eyes ; 

Some spot, where led by Fancy's sweet assistance 
Our wandering feet o'er silvery sands may stray, 

Where prattling waters urge with soft resistance 

Their wavelets on, till lost in airy distance, 
And far away. 

Oft the lone Indian o'er these low-toned waters 
Has bent perhaps his swarthy brow to lave ! 

It seems the requiem of their dark-eyed daughters. 
Those sweet, wild notes that wander o'erthe wave. 

Hast thou no relic of their ancient glory. 
No legend, lonely cavern I linked with thine 1 

No tale of love — no wild, romantic story 

Of some warm heart whose dreams were transitory 
And sweet as mine 1 

It must be so : the thought your spell enhances ; 

Yet why pursue this wild, romantic dream ? 
The heart, afloat upon its fluttering fancies. 

Would lose itself in the bewildering theme. 
And yet, ye waters ! still I list your surging, 

And ever and anon I seem to view. 
In Fancy's eye, some Indian maid emerging 
Through the deep gloom, and o'er your waters urging 
Her light canoe. 

Oh silent cave ! amid the elevation 
Of lofty thought could I abide with thee, 

My soul's sad shrine, my heart's lone habitation, 
For ever and for ever thou shouldst be : 

Here into song my every thought I 'd render. 
And thou, and thou alone, shouldst be my theme, 

Far from the weary world's delusive splendor, 

Would not my lonely life be all one tender, 
Delicious dream 7 

Yes, though no other form save mine might hover 
In these lone halls, no other whisper roll 

Along those airy domes that arch me over 
Save gentle Echo's, sister of my soul, [me. 

Yet 'neath these domes whose spell of beauty weighs 
My heart would evermore in bliss abide — 

No sorrow to depress, no hope to raise me, 

Here would I ever dwell — with none to praise me, 
And none to chide. 

Region of caves and streams ! and must I sever 
My spirit from your spelH 'T were bliss to stray 

The happy rover of your realms for ever. 
And yet, farewell for ever and for aye ! 

I leave you now, yet many a sparkling token 
Wilhin your cool recesses I have sought 

To treasure up with fancies still unspoken, [broken 

Till from these quivering heartstrings Death hath 
The thread of thought. 



338 



AMELIA B. WELBY. 



HOPELESS LOVE. 

The trembling wavesbeneath the moonbeamsquiver 

Reflecting back the blue, unclouded skies; 
The stars look down upon the still, bright river, 

And smile to see themselves in paradise ; 
Sweet songs are heard to gush in joyous bosoms, 

That lightly throb beneath the greenwood tree, 
And glossy plumes float in amid the blossoms. 

And all around are happy — all but me ! 

And yet, I come beneath the light, that trembles 

O'er these dim paths, with listless steps to roam, 
For here ray bursting heart no more dissembles. 

My sad lips quiver, and the tear-drops come; 
I come once more to list the low-voiced turtle. 

To watch the dreamy waters as they flow, 
And lay me down beneath the fragi'ant myrtle. 

That drops its blossoms when the west winds blow. 

Oh ! there is one, on whose sweet face I ponder, 

One angel-being mid the beauteous band. 
Who in the evening's hush comes out to wander 

Amid the dark-eyed daughters of the land ! 
Her step is lightest where each light foot presses. 

Her song is sweetest mid their songs of glee. 
Smiles light her lips, and rosebuds, mid her tresses, 

Look lightly up their dark redundancy. 

Youth,weaUh,andfame,aremine: all.thatentrances 
The youthful heart, on me their charms confer ; 

Sweet lips smile on me too, and melting glances 
Flash up to mine — but not a glance from her ! 

Oh, I would give youth, beauty, fame, and splendor, 
My all of bliss, my every hope resign. 

To wake in that young heart one feeling tender — 

. To clasp that little hand, and call it mine ! 

In this sweet solitude the sunny weather 

Hath called to life light shapes and fairy-elves, 
The rosebuds lay their crimson lips together. 

And the green leaves are whispering to themselves ; 
The clear, faint starlight on the blue wave flushes. 

And, filled with odors sweet, the south wind blows, 
The purple clusters load the lilac-bushes. 

And fragrant blossoms fringe the apple-boughs. 

Yet, I am sick with love and melancholy. 

My locks are heavy with the dropping dew. 
Low murmurs haunt me — murmurs soft and holy. 

And oh, my lips keep murmuring, murmuring too ! 
I hate the beauty of these calm, sweet bowers. 

The bird's wild music, and the fountain's fall ; 
Oh, I am sick in this lone land of flowers. 

My soul is weary — weary of them all ! 

Yet had I that sweet face, on which I ponder. 

To bloom for me within this Eden-home, 
That Up to sweetly murmur when I wander. 

That cheek to softly dimple when I come — 
Howsweetwould glide mydaysin these lone bowers. 

Far from the world and all its heartless throngs, 
Her fairy feet should only tread on flowers, 

I 'd make her home melodious with my songs ! 

Ah me ! such blissful hopes once filled my bosom. 
And dreams of fame could then my heart enthrall. 

And joy and bliss around me seemed to blossom ; 
But oh, these bUssful hopes are blighted — all ! 



No smiling angel decks these Eden-bowers, 
No springing footstep echoes mine in glee- 

Oh, I am weary in this land of flowers ! 
I sigh — I sigh amid them all— ah me I 



THE OLD MAID. 

Wht sits she thus in solitude 1 her heart 

Seems melting in her eye's delicious blue — ■ 
And as it heaves, her ripe lips lie apart 

As if to let its heavy throbbings through ; 
In her dark eye a depth of softness swells. 

Deeper than that her careless girlhood wore ; 
And her cheek crimsons with the hue that tells 

The rich, fair fruit is ripened to the core. 

It is her thirtieth birthday ! with a sigh 

Her soul hath turn'd from youth's luxuriant bowers, 
And her heart taken up the last sweet tie 

That measured out its links of golden hours ! 
She feels her inmost soul within her stir 

With thoughts too wild and passionate to speak; 
Yet her full heart — its own interpreter — 

Translates itself in silence on her cheek. 

Joy's opening buds, affection's glowing flowers, 

Once lightly sprang within her beaming track ; 
Oh, life was beautiful in those lost hours, 

And yet she does not wish to wander back I 
No ! she but loves in loneliness to think 

On pleasures past, though never more to be: 
Hope links her to the future — but the lin^ 

That binds her to the past is memory I 

From her lone path she never turns aside, 

Though passionate worshippers before her fall ; 
Like- some pure planet in her lonely pride. 

She seems to soar and beam above them all ! 
Not that her heart is cold ! — emotions new 

And fi-esh as flowers are with her heartstrings knit : 
And sweetly mournful pleasures wander through 

Her virgin soul, and softly ruflle it. 
For she hath lived with heart and soul alive 

To all that makes life beautiful and fair ; [hive 
Sweet Thoughts, like honey-bees, have made their 

Of her soft bosom-cell, and cluster there ; 
Yet life is not to her what it hath been : 

Her soul hath learned to look beyond its gloss — 
And now she hovers like a star between 

Her deeds of love — her Savior on the cross ! 
Beneath the cares of earth she does not bow. 

Though she hath ofttimes drained its bitter cup, 
But ever wanders on with heavenward brow. 

And eyes whose lovely lids are lifted up ! 
She feels that in that lovelier, happier sphere, 

Her bosom yet will, birdlike, find its mate, 
And all the joys it found so blissful here 

Within that spirit-realm perpetuate. 
Yet, sometimes o'er her trembling heartstrings thrill 

Soft sighs, for raptures it hath ne'er enjoyed — 
And then she dreams of love, and strives to fill 

With wild and passionate thoughts the craving void. 
And thus she wanders on — half sad, half blest — 

Without a mate for the pure, lonely heart. 
That, yearning, throbs within her virgin breast, 

Never" to find its lovely counterpart ! 



AMELIA B. WELBY. 



329 



MELODIA. 

I WET, once in my girlish hours, 

A creature, soft and warm ; 
Her cottage bonnet, filled with flowers. 

Hung swinging on her arm ; 
Her voice was sweet as the voice of Love, 

And her teeth were pure as pearls. 
While her forehead lay, like a snow-white dove, 

In a nest of nut-brown curls ; 
She was a thing unknown to fame — 
Melodia vras her strange, sweet name. 

I never saw an eye so bright 

And yet so soft as hers ; 
It sometimes swam in hquid light. 

And sometimes swam in tears; 
It seemed a beauty, set apart 

For softness and for sighs; 
But oh ! Melodia's melting heart 

Was softer than her eyes — 
For they were only formed to spread 
The softness from her spirit shed. 

I've gazed on many a brighter face, 

But ne'er on one, for years, 
Where beauty left so soft a trace 

As it had left on hers. 
But who can paint the spell, that wove 

A brightness round the whole ? 
'T would take an angel from above 

To paint the immortal soul — 
To trace the light, the inborn grace. 

The spirit, sparkling o'er her face. 

Her bosom was a soft retreat 

For love, and love alone. 
And yet her heart had never beat 

To Love's delicious tone. 
It dwelt within its circle free 

From tender thoughts like these, 
Waiting the little deity, 

As the blossom waits the breeze 
Before it throws the leaves apart 
And trembles, like the love-touched heart. 

She was a creature, strange as fair. 

First mournful and then wild — 
Now laughing on the clear, bright air 

As merry as a child. 
Then, melting down, as soft as even 

Beneath some new control. 
She'd throw her hazel eyes to heaven 

And sing with all her soul. 
In tones as rich as some young bird's, 
Warbling her own deliglitful words. 

Melodia ! oh how soft thy darts, 

How tender and how sweet ! 
Thv song enchained a thousand hearts 

And drew them to thy feet ; 
And, as thy bright lips sang, they caught 

So beautiful a ray. 
That, as I gazed, I almost thought 

The spirit of thy lay 
Had left, while melting on the air, 
Its sweet expression painted there. 



Sweet vision of that starry even I 

Thy virgin beauty yet. 
Next to the blessf d hope of heaven, 

Is in my spirit set. 
It is a something, shrined apart, 

A light from memory shed. 
To live until this tender heart, 

On which it lives, is dead — 
Reminding me of brighter hours. 
Of summer eves and summer flowers. 



TO A SEA-SHELL. 

Shell of the bright sea-waves ! 
What is it that we hear in thy sad moan 1 
Is this unceasing music all thine own 1 

Lute of the ocean-caves ! 

Or does some spirit dwell 
In the deep windings of thy chambers dim. 
Breathing for ever, in its mournful hymn, 

Of ocean's anthem-swell t 

Wert thou a murmurer long 
In crystal palaces beneath the seas. 
Ere from the blue sky thou hadst heard the breeze 

Pour its full tide of song 1 

Another thing with thee : 
Are there not gorgeous cities in the deep, 
Buried with flashing gems that brightly sleep, 

Hid by the mighty sea 1 

And say, oh lone sea-shell ! 
Are there not costly things and sweet perfumes 
Scattered in waste o'er that sea-gulf of tombs 1 

Hush thy low moan and tell. 

But yet, and more than all — 
Has not eacli foaming wave in fury tossed 
O'er earth's most beautiful, the brave, the lost. 

Like a dark funeral pall ? 

' Tis vain — tliou answerest not ! 
Thou hast no voice to whisper of the dead ; 
'Tis ours alone, with sighs like odors shed, 

To hold them unforgot ! 

Thine is as sad a strain 
As if the spirit in thy hidden cell 
Pined to be with the many things that dwell 

In the wild, restless main. 

And yet there is no sound 
Upon the waters, whispered by the waves, 
But seemeth like a wail from many graves, 

Tiuilling the air around. 

The earth, oh moaning shell! 
The earth hath melodies more sweet than these — 
The music-gush of rills, the hum of bees 

Heard in each blossom's bell. 

Are not these tones of earth. 
The rustling forest, with its shivering leaves. 
Sweeter than sounds that e'en in moonlit eves 

Upon the seas have birth ? 

Alas ! thou still wilt moan — 
Thou'rt like the heart that wastes itself in sighs 
E'en when amid bewildering melodies. 

If parted from its own. 



330 



AMELIA B. WELBY. 



THE LAST INTERVIEW. 

Here, in this lonely bower where first I won thee, 
I come, beloved, beneath the moon's pale ray. 

To gaze once more through struggling tears upon 
And then to bear my broken heart away, [thee, 

I dare not linger near thee as a brother, 

I feel my burning heart would still he thine ; 

How could Ihope my passionate thoughts to smother, 

While yielding all the sweetness to another, 
That should be mine .' 

But Fate hath willed it; the decree is spoken; 

Now life may lengthen out its weary chain ; 
For, reft of thee, its loveliest links are broken ; 

May we but clasp them all in heaven again ! 
Yes, thou wilt there be mine: in yon blue heaven 

There are sweet meetings of the pure and fond ; 
Oh ! joys unspeakable to such are given, 
When the sweet ties of love, that here are riven, 
Unite beyond. 

A glorious charm from heaven thou dost inherit ; 

1'he gift of angels unto thee belongs ; 
Then breathe thy love in music, that thy spirit 

May whisper to me thro' tliine own sweet songs ; 
And though my coming life may soon resemble 

The desert spots through which my steps will flee. 
Though round thee then wild worshippers assemble. 
My heart will triumph if thine own but tremble 
Still true to me. 

Yet, not when on our bower the light reposes 
Id golden glory, wilt thou sigh for me — 

Not when the young bee seeks the crimson roses. 
And the far sunbeams ti-emblo o'er the sea ; 

But when at eve the tender heart grows fonder, 
And the full soul with pensive love is fraught. 

Then with wet lids o'er these sweet paths thou 'It 
wander. 

And, thrilled with love, upon my memory ponder 
With tender thought. 

And when at times thy birdlike voice entrances 
The listening throng with some enchanting lay. 

If I am near thee, let thy heavenly glances 
One gentle message to my heart convey ; 

I ask but this — a happier one has taken 

From my lone life the charm that made' it dear ; 

I ask but this, and promise thee unshaken 

To meet that look of love : but oh, 'twill awaken 
Such raptures here ! 

And now farewell ! farewell ! I dare not lengthen 
These sweet, sad moments out ; to gaze on thee 

Is bliss indeed, yet it but serves to strengthen 
The love that now amounts to agony ; 

This is our last farewell, our last fond meeting ; 
The world is wide, and we must dwell apart ; 

My spirit gives thee, now, its last wild greeting, 

With lip to lip, while pulse to pulse is beating, 
And heart to heart. 

Farewell ! farewell ! our dream of bliss is over — 
All, save the memory of our plighted love ; 

I now must yield thee to thy happier lover. 
Yet, oh remember, thou art mine above ! 

T is a sweet thought, and, when by distance parted, 



'Twill lie upon our hearts a holy spell ; 
But the sad tears beneath thy lids have started, 
And I — alas ! we both are broken-hearted — 
Dearest, farewell ! 



MY SISTERS. 

Like flowers that softly bloom together. 

Upon one fair and fragile stem. 
Mingling their sweets in sunny weather 

Ere strange, rude hands have parted them, 
So were we linked unto each other, 

Sweet sisters, in our childish hours. 
For then one fond and gentle mother 

To us was like the stem to flowers; 
She was the golden thread that bound us 

In one bright chain together here, 
Till Death unloosed tlie cord around us, 

And we were severed far and near. 

The floweret's stem, when broke or shattered, 

Must cast its blossoms to the wind, 
Yet, round the buds, though widely scattered, 

The same soft perfume still we find ; 
And thus, although the tie is broken 

That linked us round our mother's knee, 
The memory of words we've spoken. 

When we were children light and free, 
Will, like the perfume of each blossom, 

Live in our hearts where'er we roam. 
As when we slept on one fond bosom. 

And dwelt within one happy home. 

I know that changes have come o'er us ; 

Sweet sisters ! we are not the same. 
For different paths now lie before us, 

And all three have a different name ; 
And yet, if Sorrow's dimming fingers 

Have shadowed o'er each youthful brow, 
So much of light around them lingers 

I can not trace those shadows now. 
Ye both have those who love ye only. 

Whose dearest hopes are round you thrown. 
While, like a stream that wanders wildly. 

Am I, the youngest, wildest one. 

My heart is like the wind, that beareth 

Sweet scents upon its unseen wing — 
The wind ! that for no creature careth, 

Yet stealeth sweets from everything; 
It hath rich thoughts for ever leaping 

Up, like the waves of flashing seas, 
That with their music still are keeping 

Soft time with every fitful breeze ; 
Each leaf that in the bright air quivers. 

The sounds from hidden solitudes. 
And the deep flow of far-oif rivers. 

And the loud rush of many floods : 

All these, and more, stir in my bosom 

Feelings that make my spirit glad. 
Like dowdrops shaken in a blossom ; 

And yet there is a something sad 
Mixed with those thoughts, like clouds, that hover 

Above us in the quiet air, 
Veiling the moon's pale beauty over. 

Like a dark spirit brooding there. 



AMELIA B. WELBY. 



331 



But, sisters ! those wild thoughts were never 

Yours : ye would not love, like me, 
To gaze upon the stars for ever. 

To hear the wind's wild melody. 
Ye 'd rather look on smiling faces. 

And linger romrd a cheerful hearth, 
Than mark the stars' bright hiding-places 

As they peep out upon the earth. 
But. sisters ! as the stars of even 

Shrink from Day's golden-flashing eye, 
And, melting in the depths of heaven. 

Veil their sot\ beams within the sky ; 
So shall we pass, the joyous-hearted, 

The fond, the young, like stars that wane, 
Till every Unk of earth be parted, 

To form in heaven one mystic cliain. 



MUSINGS. 

I WANBEttED out One summcr niglit, 

'T was when my years were few. 
The wind was singing in the light. 

And I was singing too ; 
The sunshine lay upon the hill, 

The shadow in the vale. 
And here and there a leaping rill 

Was laughing on the gale. 
One fleecy cloud upon the air 

Was all that met my eyes ; 
It floated like an angel there 

Between me and the skies; 
I clapped my hands and warbled wild. 

As here and there I flew. 
For I was but a careless child, 

And did as children do. 
The waves came dancing o'er the sea 

In bright and glittering bands ; 
Like little children, wild with glee. 

They linked their dimpled hands — 
They linked their hands, but, ere I caught 

Their sprinkled drops of dew, 
They kissed my feet, and, quick as thought. 

Away the ripples flew. 

The twilight hours, like birds, flew by, 

As lightly and as free ; 
Ten thousand stars were in the sky. 

Ten thousand on the sea ; 
For every wave witli dimpled face. 

That leaped upon the air. 
Had cauglit a star in its embrace. 

And held it trembling there. 

The young moon, too, with upturned sides 

Her mirrored beauty gave. 
And, as a bark at anchor rides, 

She rode upon the wave ; 
The sea was like the heaven above. 

As perfect and as whole. 
Save that it seemed to thrill with love 

As thrills the immortal soul. 

The leaves, by spirit-voices stirred. 

Made murmurs on the air. 
Low murmurs, that my spirit heard 

And answered with a prayer ; 



For 'twas upon that dewy sod. 

Beside the moaning seas, 
I learned at first to worship God 

And sing such strains as these. 

The flowers, all folded to their dreams. 

Were bowed in slumber free 
By breezy hills and murmuring streams. 

Where'er they chanced to be ; 
No guilty tears had they to weep, 

IVo sins to be forgiven ; 
Tliey closed their leaves and went to sleep 

'Neath the blue eye of heaven !"' 

No costly robes upon them shone, 

No jewels from the seas. 
Yet Solomon upon his throne 

Was ne'er arrayed like these ; 
And just as free from guilt and art 

Were lovely human flowers, 
Ere Sorrow set her bleeding heart 

On this fair world of ours. 

I heard the laughing wind behind 

A-playing with my hair ; 
The breezy fingers of the wind — 

How cool and moist they were ! 
I heard the night-bird warbling o'er 

Its soft, enchanting strain : 
I never heard sucli sounds before, 

And never shall again. 

Then wherefore weave such strains as these, 

And sing them day by day. 
When every bird upon the breeze 

Can sing a sweeter lay ] 
I 'd give the world for their svreet art. 

The simple, the divine — 
I 'd give the world to melt one heart 

As they have melted mine ! 



THE LITTLE STEP-SON. 

I HAVE a little step-son. 

The loveliest thing alive : 
A noble, sturdy boy is he. 

And yet he's only five; 
His smooth cheek hath a blooming glow. 

His eyes are black as jet, 
And his lips are like two rosebuds. 

All tremulous and wet : 
His days pass oif in sunshine, 

In laughter, and in song. 
As careless as a summer rill. 

That sings itself along ; 
For like a pretty fairy tale, 

That's all too quickly told, 
Is the young life of a little one 

That's only five years old. 

He 's dreaming on his happy couch 

Before the day grows dark, 
He's up with morning's rosy ray 

A-singing with the lark; 
Where'er the flowers are freshest, 

Where'er the grass is green. 
With light locks waving on the wind 

His fairy form is seen, 



332 



AMELIA B. WELBY. 



Amicl the whistling March winds, 

Amid the April showers ; 
He warbles with the singing birds 

And blossoms with the flowers ; 
He cares not for Ihe summer heat, 

He cares not for the cold — 
My sturdy little step-son, 

That's only five years old. 

How touching 'tis to see him clasp 

His dimpled hands in prayer. 
And raise his little rosy face 

With reverential air ! 
How simple is his eloquence. 

How soft his accents fall, 
When pleading with the King of kings 

To love and bless us all ! 
And when from prayer he bounds away 

In innocence and joy, 
The blessing of a smiling God 

Goes with the sinless boy ; 
A little lambkin of the flock. 

Within the Savior's fold. 
Is he my lovely step-son. 

That 's only five years old. 

I have not told you of our home, 

That in the summer hours 
Stands in its simple modesty 

Half hid among the flowers ; 
I have not said a single word 

About our mines of wealth — 
Our treasures are this little boy, 

Contentment, peace, and health ; 
For even a lordly hall to us 

Would be a voiceless place 
AVithout the gush of his glad voice. 

The gleams of his bright face : 
And many a courtly pair, I ween. 

Would give their gems and gold 
For a noble, happy boy, like ours, 

Some four or five years old. 



THE PRESENCE OF GOD. 

Thou, who flingst so fair a robe 

Of clouds around the hills untrod — 
Those mountain-pillars of the globe, * 

M^hose peaks sustain thy throne, God ! 
All glittering round the sunset skies, 

Their trembling folds are lightly furled. 
As if to shade from mortal eyes 

The glories of yon upper world ; 
There, while the evening star upholds 
In one bright spot their purple folds. 
My spirit lifts its silent prayer. 
For thou, the God of love, art there. 

The summer flowers, the fair, the sweet, 

Upspringing freely fi-om the sod, 
In whose soft looks we seem to meet 

At every step thy smiles, God ! 
The humblest soul their sweetness shares. 

They bloom in palace-hall, or cot ; 
Give me, O Lord ! a heart like theirs, 

Contented with my lowly lot ! 
Within their pure, ambrosial bells. 



In odors sweet, thy Spirit dwells ; 

Their breath may seem to scent the air — 

'T is thine, God ! for thou art there. 

List ! irom yon casement low and dim 

What sounds are these that fill the breeze'! 
It is the peasant's evening hymn 

Arrests the fisher on the seas : 
The old man leans his silver hairs 

Upon his light-suspended oar. 
Until those soft, delicious airs 

Have died like ripples on the shore. 
Why do his eyes in softness roll ? 
What melts the manhood from his soul 1 
His heart is filled with peace and prayer. 
For thou, God I art with him there. 

The birds among the summer blooms 

Pour forth to thee their strains of love. 
When, trembling on uplifted plumes. 

They leave the earth and soar above ; 
We hear their sweet, familiar airs 

Where'er a sunny spot is found ; 
How lovely is a life like theirs. 

Diffusing sweetness all around ! 
From clime to clime, fi'om pole to pole. 
Their sweetest anthems softly roll. 
Till, melting on the realms of air. 
Thy still, small voice seems whispering there. 

The stars, those floating isles of light, 

Round which the clouds unfurl their sails. 
Pure as a woman's robe of white 

That trembles round the form it veils, 
They touch the heart as with a spell. 

Yet, set Ihe soaring fancy free. 
And oh how sweet the tales they tell ! 

They tell of peace, of love, and thee ! 
Each raging storm that wildly blows. 
Each balmy gale that lifts Ihe rose. 
Sublimely grand, or softly fair. 
They speak of thee, for thou art there. 

The spirit oft oppressed with doubt, 

May strive to cast thee from its thought, 
But who can shut thy presence out. 

Thou mighty Guest that com'st unsought ! 
In spite of all our cold resolves, 

Whate'er our thoughts, where'er we be, 
Still magnet-like the heart revolves, 

And points, all trembling, up to thee; 
We can not shield a troubled breast 
Beneath the confines of the blest, 
Above, below, on earth, in air, 
For thou the living God art there. 

Yet, far beyond the clouds outspread. 

Where soaring Fancy oft hath been, 
There is a land where thou hast said 

The pure of heart shall enter in ; 
In those far realms so calmly bright 

How many a loved and gentle one 
Bathes its soft plumes in living light 

That sparkles fi-om thy radiant throne ! 
There souls, once soft and sad as ours, 
Look up and sing mid fadeless flowers ; 
They dream no more of grief and care. 
For thou, the God of peace, art there. 



CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. 



Cathekine Ann Wake and Eleanor Pek- 
CT Wake, daughters of the Hon. Nathaniel 
Ware, of Mississippi, were born near the ci- 
ty of Natchez. After studying several years 
in the best seminaries of their native state, 
they completed their education in one of the 
most fashionable schools of Philadelphia, af- 
ter leaving which they passed some time in 
travel, and became known in many brilliant 
circles for the vivacious grace of their man- 
ners and their fine intelligence. Tlieir home 
beside the " Father of Waters" was exchang- 
ed for one in Cincinnati, and during the resi- 
dence of Judge Ware in that city they were 
married : the eldest to Mr. Warfield, of Lex- 
ington, Kentucky, and the other to Mr. Lee, 
then of Vicksburg, and now of a place called 
Bachelor's Bend, about twelve miles from 
the Mississippi river. 

Their first appearance in the literary world 
was in a volume entitled The Wife of Leon, 
and other Poems, by Two Sisters of the West, 
printed in New York in 1S43. It consisted 
principally of fruits of desultory repose from 
the excitements of society — short pieces, 
written to wile away time, and gratify a taste 
for composition — without a thought that they 
would ever meet the eyes of strangers; and 
it was not until urged to do so by several 
friends distinguished for their abilities in lit- 
erature, that they consented to the wishes of 
their father in giving them to the press. 

The reception of these poems vindicated 
their publication. They were reviewed with 
many expressions of approval in the most 
critical journals, and with especial praise in 
The New York Evening Post and The New 
Mirror, conducted by two poets, of very dif- 
ferent characters, but both destined to places 
among the standard authors of the age and 
country. A second edition of this volume 
appeared, under the names of the authors, in 
Cinciimati, in the autumn of 1S48. 

In 1846 Mrs. Warfield and BIrs. Lee pub- 
lished a new collection of their writings, un- 
der the title ofThelndian Chamber and other 
Poems, in which there is evinced a very de- 
cided advancement in reflection, feeling and 



art. They exhibit more readiness of epithet 
and imagery, from the observation of nature 
and the experience of life, and have more 
meaning and earnestness. 

We have in neither volume any intima- 
tion of the respective shares of the authors 
in its production, but it would not have es- 
caped the detection of the most careless read- 
ers that the poems are by dilferent hands, of 
very different though perhaps not very une- 
qual powers. Among them are many speci- 
mens of ingenious and happy fancy, of bold 
and distinct painting, and of tasteful, harmo- 
nious, and sometimes sparkling versification ; 
but not a few of them would have been much 
better if the authors had recollected that the 
word " thing" can never be properly applied 
to a human intelligence except in expression 
of contempt, and that "redolent," "fraught," 
" glee," and some half dozen other pet phrases 
of poetasters, convenient enough for rhyming 
and filling out lines, have, from the manner 
in which they are commonly applied, become 
offensive, unless used sparingly and with the 
most exact propriety. Illustrations of the 
fault to which we refer — a fault by no means 
peculiar to the "Two Sisters of the West," 
— may be found in that line of The Bird of 
Washington, in which the soul is styled 

A proud, triampbant thing : 

and in Remorse, where the word " adored," 
which is as sacred to one purpose as the He- 
brew characters that syllabled the highest 
name of the Creator, and which expresses no 
possible extravagance of feeling toward a hu- 
man being, is used for loved, or — ^ though 
this would be in very bad taste — for wir- 
shipped. 

The two volumes that have been referred 
to do not comprise all nor perhaps the best 
of the compositions of their authors. They 
are both experienced and successful writers 
of prose, and Mrs. Warfield has written a 
novel, that, if published under her real name, 
would surprise those who have formed the 
most favorable estimates of her powers, by 
its fine description, genial wit, and criticism 
of society and manners. 

333 



334 



CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. 



REMORSE. 

The day had died in sp]endor royally, 
Mid draperies of purple and of gold, 
And crimson banners waving o'er its bier; 
And the last yellow tints were fading fast 
From earth and sea, and paling in the west 
Into that vague, gray shadow which comes down 
Over the breast of Nature, as deep thought 
Upon the liuman spirit. Strangely linked 
With all the deeper yearnings of the soul — 
The secrets of the inner fane — art thou. 
Mysterious Twilight ! thou, who didst prevail 
O'er Chaos with a drear and brooding weight, 
And hadst a name ere night and day began. 
Still, in thine ancient guise, thou walkst the earth, 
Thou shadow of the Ahnighty ! and callst up 
Conscience, and Thought, and Memory, that sleep 
Through the glad, busy day and dreaming night, 
In long and sad array. There lives not one 
O'er whom thine influence falls not mournfully ; 
Thou art prophetic to the few who boast 
A happy past, and with thy shadowy hand 
Seemest to lift a corner of the veil 
That shuts their present from futurity. 
And to the mourning spirit thou revealest 
Pale, haunting faces — lost, yet loved not less 
Than when they knew no better home than earth, 
And wore a human guise. But in the soul 
Where lies a hidden sting of pain and wrong. 
Of vain regret, or, darker still, remorse — 
Thou bringst, shadowy Twilight, brooding gloom, 
And dearth, and restlessness, and agony I 

Within a southern garden, where the breath 
Of flowers went up like incense, and the plash 
Of falling fountains made a murmuring voice 
Of music sweet, yet same, there paced a man 
Restlessly to and fro : the lingering light 
Fell on his features, pale and beautiful 
As those of the old statues, and with much 
Of the ideal tenderness that breathed 
Around the marble, till it rivalled life — 
Yet with a latent sternness, lurking still 
About the august, high forehead, and the lip, 
And the fine, sweeping profile, that recalled 
Yet more a statue's strong similitude. 
But wild and stormy changes now o'ercast 
Those noble features — sick and wringing pain, 
Then shuddering shame, anxiety, despair : 
These, plainl}' as my hand hath traced the words, 
Were written on his aspect ; and a prayer — 
Which, in its brief and utter desolateness. 
Bears more of misery than any boon 
A human heart may crave — oil left his lip, 
Unconscious of its utterance : " Oh, my God, 
Let me forget — or suffer me to die !" 

A step was near him. Suddenly he turned. 
And bent a long, sad gaze on one whose touch 
Had broken the dark spell ; whose white hand lay 
Yet on his arm in tenderness ; whose eyes 
Were raised with such intensity of love, [down, 
They touched the springs of tears. Then he bowed 
And veiling in his hand his quivering face. 
Wept silently and long; while mournfully 
Watched over him that angel minister. 



Whose love alone poured balm into his wound. 
And shone a star o'er the dark waste of life. 

Still in that southern garden lingered they, 
The pale and suffering man, and she who seemed 
The genius of his fate. The stars were met 
In starry conclave in their halls above. 
And the moon, in the deep and quiet heaven, 
Rose high amid a maze of fleecy clouds, 
Toward the noon of night. Beneath a bower 
Where breathed the odorous jessamine, they sat 
Communing of the irrevocable past. 
His voice was lifted in the solemn night 
In passionate remorse : he, who had stood 
At morn within the crowded council-hall, 
Pouring abroad a gush of eloquence 
That stirred the heart as with a trumpet-note, 
That called up Feeling from its inmost cell, 
And followed Motive to its hidden source. 
And touched the electric chain of Memory, 
Until the mighty mass became as one 
Sentient and breathing soul beneath his spell ; 
He, the adored, the proud, the eloquent. 
The stateliest amid men, now filled the hush 
Of night with dark hewailings, while each pause 
Of that sad, thrilling voice, was filled by tones 
Unutterably musical and soft. 
Urging Love's fondest prayer : 

" Be calm, mine own ! 
The strife was not thy seeking : thou didst bear, 
(Thou, who art fearless as an eagle plumed,) 
With saintlike meekness, much of taunt and wrong. 
Much scorn and injury, ere they could urge 
Thy hand against the man thou lovest so well — 
Ay, with a brother's tenderness. Be firm ; 
Turn from such memories." He arose, and paced 
The moonlight bower with folded arms, and head 
Bowed to his breast. " They haunt me yet," he said, 
" That manly form, those large, dark, joyous eyes. 
The stately step, the sweet, fresh, ringing laugh, 
(Marion ! it was a sound that had no peer. 
Save at a fountain, at its freshest source, 
Gushing through mountain clefts,) these, these arise. 
Darkly and terribly. These haunt me still. 

" I would forgetfulness were mine ! full ofl 
That old wild tale of oriental lands 
Comes back with all its witchery to my brain. 
Fresh as when o'er its page I hung entranced 
In my glad boyhood, 'neath the summer boughs. 
The waters of oblivion ! where are they, 
Those crystal waters in their marble font ? 
For one deep draught I would surrender all 
The eloquence, the power, the wealth, the fame. 
That I have made mine own — all, all, save thee, 
And go with toiling hands and hopeful heart 
Forth on the w^aste of life ! Forgetfulness — 
I ask but this !" He paused, and choking back 
A tide of agony, went on once more 
In calmer tones : " It is not ofl;, mine own — 
Believe me — oh ! not often that my soul 
Opens her prison chambers, and gives forth 
Her captive anguish. Even in solitude 
My Iiabit is not this ; and thou hast known. 
Hitherto, from some gloomy mo.id alone. 
Some sad, fantastic humor, some wild dream, 
Whose mutterings startled thee from midnight sleep 



To fearful watches — something of the spell 
That binds me, as the serpent binds the bird 
Helplessly in its strong and poisonous coils. 
But there are times when, armed with fearful 

strength, 
Burst from their stony cells those prisoners pale, 
Those memories that may not, will not die. 
Those agonies that keep a quenchless flame 
Burning \vithin their dungeons, as of old 
The virgins of the Sun fed, day and night, 
Their fire for ages. These arise to daunt, 
To taunt me wildlj', and I leave the halls. 
The haunts of men — even from thy presence flee, 
Often to the dark forest, or the brink 
Of the deep-moaning and unresting sea, 
To battle with the fiend !" 

Again that voice, 
Clear as a silver lute, and redolent 
With love and hope, filled the deep hush of pain: 
" Thy virtues, thy profound humility. 
Thy charity for all, thy tenderness, 
Th^' genius, which on eagles' wings ascends 
Above the arrows of thine enemies, 
A star for men, a light for after-limes — 
Ay, more than these, thy deep and stern remorse : 
Shall not these prove atonement at the shrine 
Of God, for that one deed — not all thine own. 
But forced upon thee by fatality; 
A sorrow, not a crime !" 

" It is in vain" — 
He spoke as one in utter hopelessness — 
" Marion ! thy gentle sophistry is vain ; 
I have essayed that specious reasoning 
That would wipe out, from hands imbrued in blood, 
The dark, the gory stain. Much have I striven 
To call up all my wrongs, and these an-ay 
Against the moment when my hand unloosed 
A spirit from its tenement of clay. 
I have remembered all my injuries. 
Lived o'er again our feuds ; recalled his wild 
And insolent insults — nay, the very blow 
That maddened me. 

Yet have all these failed, 
As mists before the red, uprising sun. 
Compared to that brief instant. I would give 
Life, that once more those lips were here to heap 
Their bitterest imprecations on my head ; 
That hand again, a portion of our mould, 
That smote me, harshly, undeservedly ; 
That haughty heart still beating high with wrath, 
O'er which the sod now presses heavily — 
Or that I lay beside him in the grave ! 
I am not self-deluded. I am borne 
By some invisible agency along 
To power, to fame ; and inspiration hangs 
About my lips that startles me at times, 
Even as the crowd is startled ; and I feel 
That I am changed — that with intensity 
Of thought and passion, genius was aroused, 
Born, like the wondrous bird of Araby, 
From ashes, desolation, and trom death. 
A giant earthquake hath thrown up to light 
The gems that sparkled in the secret mine. 
But overwhelmed the blossoms that made fair 
Earth's bosom. Never, never more 



The earnestness, the loveliness of life, 
Shall shine on me ! Its fitful glare alone 
Illumines my ill-ordered destiny ; 
And in the wild e.vcitement of the crowd, 
The clamor of the multitude, the voice 
Of adulation, and the strife for fame, 
I lose alone the memory of my doom. 
The torchlight of existence still remains ; 
Its sunlight hath departed, and as flame 
Consumes the aliment that feeds its life, 
And self-destroyed expires — so must my soul 
Perish amid its ashes. 

Nay ! the time 
Is near, my Marion, when this voice shall cease 
To pour its bitter plainings on thine ear ; 
A sickness and a weariness have crept 
Of late across my spirit, and a vague 
And dreamy craving for reality — 
For all things seem like shadows. Men move by 
As forms we dimly see in midnight dreams ; 
And the vast crowd, with all its upcast heads, 
Seems often a phantasma to mine eyes. 
All but the sense of one great agonj', 
And that is like the sea, unslumbering — 
And that is like the stars, unchangeable — • 
Ay, deep and constant as my love for thee. 
Is that remorse !" 

She clung to him, she bathed 
His brow with tears. She did not speak, she knew 
How vain the task to soothe such agony. 
But mutely in her bleeding heart she prayed 
The mood might pass, or that the obUvious grave 
Might close o'er both. 

They rose at last, and traced 
Through a dim, intricate path, where orange-boughs 
Made sweet the earth beneath their feet, the way 
To their majestic home ; and through its halls 
And colonnades of marble, where up sprang 
Many a low-voiced fountain, many a shaft 
Of porphyry, and marble bearing up 
Vases of antique splendor, filled with flowers, 
They passed in silence and in gloom of soul. 
Even as those shapes that move, a restless throng, 
Within the halls of Eblis Peace be theirs ! 



DEATH ON THE PRAIRIE. 

It was a mom of autumn : wide, and vast. 
And boundless, to the eyes of those who gazed 
Upon its waste of verdure, as the sea. 
The prairie stretched away ; and through its long, 
Luxuriant grass the breath of morning crept, 
Swaying its flexile blades, until they rose 
And fell in masses like the ocean-waves, 
And rendered, Uke those billows of the deep, 
The sunbeam's splendor back, for yet the dews 
Were on their mobile surface. 

In this wide 
Monotony of beauty there appeared 
One landmark only for the weary eye. 
And that was but a wreathing cloud of smoke, 
Uprising from the fires of those who made 
A temporary sojourn on that waste 
Of verdure. They had paused where burst a spring 



336 



CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. 



Up from the very sod, and made its way 
Quietly through the grass ; a silver stream, 
Narrovp and winding, and almost unseen 
At a few paces from its humble source. 
Here had they sadly rested, for the sake 
Of one whose weariness of heart and limb 
Demanded such repose, and whose parched lips 
Drank eagerly and gratefully their last 
Refreshment fi"om the waters of the wild. 
She lay upon the rude and hasty couch 
Which kindly liands had framed, that dying girl, 
And gazed upon the blue, autumnal sky. 
With something half ecstatic in her pale 
And parted lips, and in her large blue eyes. 
And in the folding of her wan, slight hands, 
Clasped as in prayer. 

She had besought them not 
To raise between her and the firmament 
Shelter or shade. It was her dying wish 
To feel the breeze, the sunlight, on her brow ; 
For she was one, tliough lowly of descent, 
Imbued with fine perceptions, and the high 
And spiritual love of Nature long 
Had made its home and altar in her heart : 
She seemed not of the mould of those who hung 
In watchful love around her. 

It may be 
That Death, the chastener, from her lineaments 
Had banished all the dross of earthly thought, 
And stamped the impress of the angel there. 
The loveliness of that seraphic face 
No nrarble might surpass — nor in the halls 
Of princely dwellings, where the beautiful 
Wear the fine delicacy of the flower. 
Hath eye beheld a brow more beautiful 
Than hers, the daughter of the emigrant. 
The deep solemnity of hopeless grief 
Reigned o'er the band of kindred wayfarers — 
A silence only broken by the low 
And pleading voice of one who knelt beside 
The perishing girl, and clasped her chilling hands, 
And wiped the dews from her transparent brow 
^Vith the devoted tenderness of despair. 
Silent and stern, with folded arms, and lips 
Compressed in agony, the father stood, 
And gazed upon the lily of his race 
Broken and crushed ; and the strong, swarthy lines 
Of his embrowned and manly countenance 
Seemed deeper ploughed by that short space of grief 
Than all its years of toil, of change, of pain. 
And silent, too, the brothers grouped around, 
Yet shaken in their stillness, as the pines 
That bow their stately crests before the winds ; 
And prone on earth her youthful sister lay. 
With hidden face, and low, convulsive sobs. 
But, to the last, the mother faltered not: 
She who had cherished to idolatry 
That young, frail creature, and divided her 
With an impassible devotedness 
From all things else on earth. She who had erred 
In the injustice of her tenderness. 
And poured the vials of maternal love 
A thousand-fold on one — she faltered not. 
But with a bursting heart put back the tide 
Of anguish and despair, and lifted up 



Her soul with that already plumed for heaven. 
And strove to smoothe the bitterness of death 
With words of consolation, peace, and prayer, 
And holy inspiration. 

" Sing to me. 
Kind mother ; sing to me that old sweet hymn. 
Which in our village church so solemnly 
Welcomed each sabbath day : I well believe 
That, even mid the harmonies of saints. 
It will return to me." 

'T was difficult 
To take from agony a voice for song ; 
Yet the devoted mother poured the strain 
Of holy beauty on the dying ear. 
That seemed to drink its melody with joy. 
And stifled the deep groans that often strove 
To pass her lips. Hers was heroic love. 
Unheeded by the mourning band, a child — 
A bright-haired boy — had wandered from their fires 
To gather prairie-flowers, and now returned 
With a rich store of fragrance and of bloom. 
And with the impulse of a loving heart 
Showered the rich blossoms on his sister's breast. 
She turned her face to his, illumined with 
A smile of most benignant tenderness, 
And clasping in her own his rosy hands, 
She gave into his trust a solemn charge ; 
" Be true to man, to God ; be staff and stay 
To our beloved parents ; falter not 
In the good path — and we shall meet again !" 
Simple those words, and few : yet shall they cling 
Upon his brain while Memory holds her seat, 
And with their serious tenderness and truth 
Charm, like a talisman, his soul fi*om wrong. 
The hours wore on, and gradually the face 
Of the departing maiden more and more 
Revealed the hand of the victorious king. 
The strife was almost over — if, indeed, 
Strife might be called that ebbing of the tide 
Of pain, of consciousness, of life avvfay. 
Yet still there was a duty unfulfilled — 
A prayer unuttered — and it was the last 
That left the wan lips of the fainting girl, 
Breathed on a mother's ear : 

" When I am gone. 
Take from my breast a curl of raven hair. 
And mingle with it one long braid of mine — 
Then send them home to htm ,- and say I died 
Peacefully — trusting he would turn away 
From his dark course of passion and of sin, 
And meet me there !" 

She raised her hand on high : 
It fell a lifeless thing — a tremor shook 
Her delicate frame, as the breeze shakes the flower, 
And Ufe was gone ! 

They broke the sod of flowers. 
And made her virgin grave beside the spring 
Which laved her dying brow, and went their way 
Across the wilderness. 

Nor is there aught 
To mark her lone and distant resting-place ; 
The human eye might seek in vain to trace 
The vestige of her last repose, amid 
The long, rank grass that shadows all the earth — 
But angels know the spot, and guard it well. 



CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. 



337 



LEGEND OF THE INDIAN CHAMBEK. 



" Basil ! set my house in order, 

For, when I return to-day, 
I shall bring with me a stranger. 

Tarrying on his homeward way. 
Open fling the Indian Chamber, 

And the arras free from mould; 
There array a goodly banquet, 

Such as cheered my sires of old — 
When, from chase or war returning, 

Dukes and princes of my hne, 
From the evening till the morning. 

Filled the cup and dramed the .wine." 
" Master, in thy lordly castle 

There are many halls of pride, 
Where no damps the walls encumber — 

Where no spells of gloom abide. 
In the gallery of the Titans, 

In the hall of Count Lothaire, 
In the grand saloon of columns. 

Better had ye banquet there. 
But the dreary Indian Chamber, 

Oh ! bethink you, master mine — 
There have slept, in mortal slumber, 

All the princes of your line. 

" There the mourners ever gather. 

Forth to bear the noble dead — 
There you saw your stately father. 

And your noble brother laid ; 
There, save in these times of anguish, 

Never, since my life began, 
Entered in a ray of sunhght. 

Or the step of mortal man. 
And the sounds of mystic meaning — 

Master ! need I speak of these ? — 
Which from that lone eastern chamber 

Meet the ear — the spirit freeze !" 

With a brow of haughty pallor, 

Straight the b.aron turned away. 
In a scornful accent saying, 

" 'T is my mandate, slave ! — obey." 
Then in haste, with gloomy aspect 

Forth he went upon his steed, 
Rushing headlong on his pathway, 

Like an evil spirit freed. 
And with sad and stricken spirit, 

Basil watched his lord depart, 
While a dark and evil omen. 

Hearse-like, pressed upon his heart. 

Long he hngered at the portal. 

Bound as with a gloomy dream ; 
Long he looked upon the landscape, 

Which before him ceased to seem; 
Then, with low and prayerful mutterings, 

Shaking oft his tresses gray. 
Clasping oft his withered fingers, 

Basil went upon his way. 
Passed he up the ancient stairway, 

Groped he through the echoing aisle, 
Where, to seek the olden chapel. 

Oft had passed a kingly file. 
23 



Climbed he the remotest turret 

Of that castle grand and vast. 
And before the Indian Chamber 

Wearily he paused at last : 
Yes, a moment there he faltered. 

He who oft had stood the shock 
Of the hottest, fiercest battle. 

Firm as a primeval rock. 
On the bolt his fingers trembled, 

Scarcely could their strength unclose 
The immense and ponderous fastening, 

Rusted by its long repose. 

Yet a moment — yet a moment. 

Ere the door was open flung. 
Paused the old and awe-struck Basil, 

Fervent aves on his tongue. 
As if Heaven his prayer had answered. 

Peace and comfort round him stole, 
And a calm and lofty courage 

Nerved his hand and filled his soul. 
With a slight, yet sudden effort, 

Back the oaken door he threw. 
And upon the darkened threshold 

Stood the fearful place to view. 
Dark and dreary was that chamber, 

Which in lengthened gloom appeared. 
With its dark and mystic arras, 

Wrought in symbols wild and weird. 
Lifelike were the gorgeous figures, 

Gianthke they seemed to loom 
In the dim, imperfect twilight 

Of that long-forsaken room. 
Warily the old man entered : 

With a solemn step he trod 
Through the drear and dark apartment. 

Trusting to his fathers' God. 
In the ample hearth he kindled 

Brands that, in departed days. 
Quenched and blackened, had been left there- 
Strange and ghostly seemed their blaze. 
And upon the marble table 

Ranged the regal store of plate, 
And arrayed the goodly banquet. 

As became his master's state : 
Urn, and vase, and chalice, brimming 

With the floods of ruby wine. 
As beseemed the dukes and princes 

Of that mighty Norman line. 
Then he silently betook him 

To his first-appointed task — 
Wiping from the ancient arras 

Many a spot of mould and mask. 
But the dark and loathing horror, 

It befits me not to speak, 
Which, while still his task pursuing. 

Shook his hand, and blanched his cheek : 
For he could not but remember 

How, in long-departed years. 
Woven was that wondrous fabric 

By the spells of Indian seers. 
Wrought with themes of Hindoo story. 

Lifelike, in their coloring bold, 
Yemen's fall, and Vishnu's glory. 

Was tliat arras quaint and old ; 



338 



CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. 



Juggernaut's remorseless chariot, 

Funeral pyre, and temple proud. 
Bungalow, and rajah's palace, 

With their strange and motley crowd ; 
Jungle low, and flower-crowned river. 

Dancing-girls, with anklets bright — 
These, like gorgeous dreams of fever, 

Crowded on the gazer's sight. 

And the long and twisting serpents. 

And the tigers crouching grim. 
Seemed the dark and fearful guardians 

Of that Indian Chamber dim. 
To the simple, earnest spirit 

Of the old and faithful man. 
For a Christian hand to touch them, 

Was to merit Christian ban. 
Saint and martyr inly calling, 

Still he wrought his master's will, 
When a terror more appalling 

Caused his very veins to chill. 

In that dreary Indian Chamber, 

Strangely grand and desolate. 
With its long and hearse-like hangings. 

Stood a plumed bed of state. 
Closed around with solemn mystery 

As a kingly purple pall. 
High it towered, a silent history 

Of departed funeral. 
And with eyes amazed — distended 

By their dread and spell-bound look — 
Basil gazed in stony horror : 

Lo ! the traihng curtains shook. 

And a groan of hollow anguish 

From the close-drawn hangings broke. 
As if one for ages sleeping 

Suddenly to torture woke. 
God of terror ! — slowly parted 

By a wan and spectral hand. 
Back were drawn the purple curtains — 

Back, as with a spirit wand : 
And a face of ghostly beauty, 

With its dark and streaming hair. 
And its eyes of ghoul-like brightness. 

Seemed upon his sense to glare. 

How in that terrific moment 

Basil's senses kept their throne. 
Is alone to God and angels 

In its wondrous mystery known. 
How he gathered faith and firmness 

To uplift his aged hand. 
And address the disembodied, 

Man may never understand : 
Save that in the ghostly features 

Still a semblance he descried 
To the high and lovely lady 

Who had been his master's bride. 

" In the name of God the Father, 

In the name of God the Son, 
In the name of all good angels. 

Speak to me, uneartlily one ! 
Answer why, from wave returning. 

Meanest thou in anguish here ; 
Surely for some holy purpose 



Thou art suffered to appear. 
If for evil I defy thee. 

By the cross upon my breast. 
By my faith in life eternal, 

And my yearning hope for rest." 

Then with moveless lips the phantom 

Spake in low and hollow tones. 
As if shaped to words and meaning 

Were the night-wind's hollow moans : 
" Basil ! darkly was I murdered 

Sailing on the river Rhine, 
By thy harsh and ruthless master. 

Last of an illustrious line. 
False the tale his lips have uttered. 

False the tears his eyes have shed — 
I was hurled upon the water 

With the marks of murder red ! 

" Basil ! thou art good and faithful : 

Thee I charge, by hopes divine. 
With a hundred chanted masses 

Shrive my soul by Mary's shrine. 
None shall stay thy holy fervor, 

None forbid the sacred rite ; 
For thy master's hfe is destined 

To expire in crime to-night !" 
Fixed in awe, the aged Basil 

Gazing on the spectre stood ; 
But not with the waning phantom 

Passed away his icy mood. 

Long in that drear Indian Chamber, 

Like a form of sculptured stone. 
Kept the old and awe-struck servant 

Vigil terrible and lone ; 
Till the sound of coming footsteps. 

And of voices loud and clear, 
And of ringing spur and sabre. 

Smote upon his spell-bound ear : 
And in haste the door was opened. 

And with high and plumed crest 
Entered in the noble baron. 

Ushering in a foreign guest, 

" Basil ! all is dark and sombre ; 

Cast fi-esh fagots on the hearth, 
And illume the silver sconces 

To preside above our mirth. 
Let the chamber glow like sunlight ; 

111 this gloom befits our glee." 
Then loud laughed the stately baron — 

Seldom, seldom so laughed he. 
'Twas a sound that chilled with terror 

All that knew his nature well : 
'Twas the heaven's electric flashing 

Ere the bolt of lightning fell. 



Now the chamber glowed like sunlight — 

Strange and wondrous in that glare 
Was the weird and ancient arras. 

Were the figures woven there ; 
Wavering with the flickering torches 

Seemed the motley multitude ; 
Twisting serpent, rolling chariot. 

All with ghostly Ufe imbued ; 



CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. 



339 



Crouching tiger — liideous idol — 

All that grand and splendid masque, 
Mixture strange of truth and fable, 

As in sunshine seemed to bask. 
" Long have I sojourned in India," 

Thus the lofty stranger said ; 
" There, for wealth and idle treasure, 

Health, and youth, and blood, I shed. 
And I feel like one who dreameth, 

As I on these walls survey 
All those objects so familiar. 

Year by year and day by day." 
All in strange and blended splendor, 

Like a vision of the night — 
Never yet on earthly fabric 

Glowed a scene so rich and bright. 
Fixed upon the spell-wrought arras 

Was the eastern stranger's gaze ; 
With his head and heart averted. 

There he dreamed of other days : 
When, with eyes of watchful terror, 

Basil saw his master ghde. 
And within the golden chalice 

Brimming with its purple tide, 
With a stealthy, glancing motion. 

As a conjuror works his spell, 
Cast a drop of ruby liquid 

From a tiny rose-lipped shell. 
" Hither turn, thou eastern dreamer: 

Pledge me in this golden cup ; 
'Tis our old and feudal custom — 

He who tastes must quaif it up. 
Why that brow of gloom and pallor ? 

Answer, why that sudden start 1" 
Low the eastern stranger muttered 

Of the spells that chilled his heart : 
" No ! my eyes have not deceived me. 

As I fondly dreamed erewhile ; 
See the victim's bride descending 

From the rajah's funeral pile. 
" See, she Cometh ! — wildly streaming 

Are her robes — her raven hair : 
See, she cometh ; darkly gleaming 

From her eyes their fell despair ! 
Now she stands beside the altar. 

In the Bramin's sacred shrine ; 
Now a jewelled cup she seizes — 

Flames within it seem to shine ; 
Now, God ! she leaves the arras — 

Steps upon the chamber floor : 
We are lost — the prey of demons ; 

Baron, I will gaze no more !" 
Turned away the soul-sick stranger, 

Traversed he the chamber high, 
When the baron's awful aspect 

Chained his step and fixed his eye. 
Never from his memory perished 

Through long years of after-life 
In the camp, the court, the battle. 

That remorseful face of strife. 
Rooted as a senseless statue. 

In his hand the cup of gold ; 
Lips apart and eyes distended. 

Stood the Norman baron bold ! 



High her cup the phantom lifted, 

Flames within it seemed to Toll ; 
Then alone these words she uttered — 

" Pledge me in thy feudal bowl !" 
Chained and speechless, guest and servant 

Saw the baron drain the draught; 
Saw him fall convulsed and blackened 

As the deadly bowl he quaffed ; 
Saw the phantom bending o'er him, 

As libation on his head 
Slowly, and with mien exulting. 

From the cup of flames she shed. 

Then a shriek of smothered anguish 

Rang the Indian Chamber through, 
While a gust of icy bleakness 

From the waving arras blew. 
In its breath the watchers shuddered. 

And the portals open rung. 
And the ample hearth was darkened, 

As if ice was on it flung ; 
And the lofty torches warring 

For a moment in the blast. 
In their sconces were extinguished. 

Leaving darkness o'er the past ! 



SHE COMES TO ME. 

She comes to me in robes of snow, 
The friend of all my sinless years — 

Even as I saw her long ago. 

Before she left this vale of tears. 

She comes to me in robes of snow — 
She walks the chambers of my rest. 

With soundless footsteps, sad and slow, 
That wake no echo in my breast. 

I see her in my visions yet, 
I see her in my waking hours ; 

Upon her pale, pure brow is set 
A crown of azure hyacinth flowers. 

Her golden hair waves round her face, 
And o'er her shoulders gently falls : 

Each ringlet hath the nameless grace 
My spirit yet on earth recalls. 

And, bending o'er my lowly bed. 

She murmurs — " Oh, fear not to die !— 

For thee an angel's tears are shed. 
An angel's feast is spread on high. 

" Come, then, and meet the joy divine 
That features of the spirits wear : 

A fleeting pleasure here is thine — 
An angel's crown awaits thee there. 

" Listen ! it is a choral hymn" — 
And, gliding softly from my couch, 

Her spirit-face waxed faint and dim. 
Her white robes vanished at my touch. 

She leaves me with her robes of snow — 
Hushed is the voice that used to thrill 
Around the couch of pain and wo — 
■ She leaves me to my darkness still. 



340 



CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. 



I WALK IN DREAMS OF POETRY. 

I WALK in dreams of poetry ; 

They compass me around ; 
I hear a low and startling voice 

In every passing sovind ; 
I meet in every gleaming star, 

On which at eve I gaze, 
A deep and glorious eye, to fill 

My soul with burning rays. 

I walk in dreams of poetry ; 

The very air I breathe 
Is tilled with visions wild and free, 

That round my spirit wi'eathe ; 
A shade, a sigh, a floating cloud, 

A low and whispered tone — 
These have a language to my brain, 

A language deep and lone. 

I walk in dreams of poetry. 

And in my spirit bow 
Unto a lone and distant shrine. 

That none around me know. 
From every heath and hill I bring 

A garland rich and rare, 
Of flowery thought and murmuring sigh, 

To wreathe mine altar fair. 
I walk in dreams of poetry : 

Strange spells are on me shed ; 
I have a world within my soul 

Where no one else may tread — 
A deep and wide-spread universe, 

Where spirit-sound and sight 
Mine inward vision ever greet 

With fair and radiant light. 
My footsteps tread the earth below. 

While soars my soul to heaven : 
Small is my portion here — yet there 

Bright realms to me are given. 
I clasp my kindred's greeting hands, 

Walk calmly by their side, 
And yet I feel between us stands 

A barrier deep and wide. 
I watch their deep and household joy 

Around the evening hearth. 
When the children stand beside each knee 

With laugh and shout of mirth. 
But oh ! I feel unto my soul 

A deeper joy is brought — 
To rush, with eagle wings and strong. 

Up in a heaven of thought. 
I watch them in their sorrowing hours. 

When, with their spirits tossed, 
I hear them wail with bitter cries 

Their earthly prospects crossed ; 
I feel that I have sorrows wild 

In my heart buried deep — 
Immortal griefs, that none may shai'e 

With me — nor eyes can weep. 
And strange it is : I can not say 

If it is wo or weal. 
That thus unto my heart can flow 

Fountains so few may feel ; 
The giit that can my spirit raise 

The cold, dark earth above, 



Has flung a bar between my soul 
And many a heart I love. 

Yet I walk in dreams of poetry, 

And would not change that path, 
Though on it from a darkened sky 

Were poured a tempest's wrath. 
Its flowers are mine, its deathless blooms, 

I know not yet the thorn ; 
I dream not of the evening glooms 

In this my radiant morn. 

Oh ! still in dreams of poetry 

Let me for ever tread. 
With earth a temple, where divine, 

Bright oracles are shed : 
They soften down the earthly ills 

From which they can not save ; 
They make a romance of our life ; 

They glorify the grave. 



REGRET. 

No voice hath breathed upon mine ear 

Thy name since last we met ; 
No sound disturbed the silence drear, 
Where sleep entombed from year to year 
Thy memory, my regret. 

It was not just, it was not meet. 

For one so loved as I, 
To coldly hear thy parting feet, 
To lose for aye thine accents sweet. 

Nor feel a wish to die. 

Oh, no ! such heartless calm was not 

The doom deserved by thee ; 
Thou whose devotedness was bought 
By years of gloom, an alien's lot, 

A grave beyond the sea. 

I deemed not then that time at last 
Should link with tears thy name ; 
And from the ashes of the past, 
That Sorrow, with its bitter blast. 
Should wake the avenging flame. 

I deemed not then that when the grave 

Had made thee long its own. 
My soul with yearnings deep should crave 
The truth, the fervent love that gave 

Thy heart its passionate tone. 

And yield to olden memories 

The boon it once denied, 
When, with calm brow and tearless eyes, 
I saw thy faded energies, 

I mocked thy broken pride. 

All this is past ; thou art at rest, 

And now the strife is mine : 
In turn I bear the weary breast. 
The restless heart, the brain oppressed. 

That in those years were thine. 

And all too late, the consciousness 

Of thy perfections rare. 
Thy deep, thy fervent tenderness. 
Thy true, thy strong devotedness, 

Have waked me to despair. 



CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. 



341 



SONG. 

I NEVER knew how dear thou wert, 

Till I was on the silent sea ; 
And then my lone and musing heart 

Sent back its passionate thoughts to thee. 
When the wind slept on ocean's breast, 

And the moon smiled above the deep, 
I longed thus o'er thy spirit's rest 

A vigil like yon moon to keep. 

When the gales rose, and, tempest-tossed. 

Our struggling ship was sore beset. 
Our topsails rent, our bearing lost, 

And fear in every spirit met — 
Oh ! then, amid the midnight storm. 

Peace on my soul thy memory shed : 
The floating image of thy form 

Made strong my heart amid its dread. 

Yes I on the dark and troubled sea, 

I strove my spirit's depths to know. 
And found its deep, deep love for thee, 

Fathomless as the gulfs below. 
The waters bore me on my way — 

Yel, oh ! more swift than rushing streams. 
To thee flew back, from day to day. 

My clinging love — my burning dreams. 



THE BIRD OF WASHINGTON. 

SUGGESTED BY AN INCIDENT IN AUDUBON. 

Above that dark, romantic stream, 
Gray rocks and gloomy forests tower. 

And o'er its sullen floods the dream 
Of Lethe seems to lower ; 

Low, shadowed by its frowning steeps. 

The deep and turbid river sweeps. 

It sweeps along through many a cleft 
And chasm in the mountains gray. 

Which in forgotten years were reft 
To give its waters way ; 

And far above, in martial lines, 

Like warriors, stand the plumed pines. 

Erect and firm they hft on high 

Their pointed tops and funeral spires. 

And seem to pierce the sunset sky, 
And bask amid its fires ; 

And when the mountain-winds are loud. 

Their branches swell the anthem proud. 

Few steps have dared those rugged ways — 
The precipice is steep and stern ; 

And those who on its ramparts gaze 
From the drear aspect turn, 

With little heart to tempt the path 

Bared by the storm and lightning's wrath. 

But those who love the awful might 
Of Nature's dreariest solitude. 

May find on that repulsive height 
A scene to match their mood ; 

And from its summit look abroad 

On the primeval works of God. 

There, in that loneliness profound, 
The soul puts forth a stronger wing. 



And soars, from worldly chains imboimd, 

A proud, triumphant thing. 
To claim its kindred with the sky, 
And feel its latent deity. 

'Twas there that, at the set of sun, 
A traveller watched an eagle's flight — 

Now lost amid the vapors dun 
That ushered in the night. 

Now wheeling through the vault of space. 

In wild intricacies of grace. 

And as declined the crimson gleam 
Behind the mountain's purple crest. 

He saw him sink, with sudden scream, 
Upon his rocky nest ; 

Then, clambering up the rugged way, 

The traveller sought his kingly prey. 

Through bush and brake, o'er loosened rock, 
That, sliding from his footsteps slow, 

Went plunging with a sudden shock 
Into the wave below ; 

O'er fallen tree, and serpents' brood. 

He sought the eagle's solitude. 

Emerging from the coppice dark 

That crowned the frowning precipice. 

He stood in silent awe to mark 
The fathomless abyss 

Which yawned beneath him deep and stern. 

And barred him from the eagle's cairn. 

A deer, half maddened by the chase, 
Had once in safety leaped across : 

Such was the legend of the place — 
Yet diiBcult it was 

For those who heard to comprehend 

How fear itself such strength could lend. 

And thus divided from his prey. 

The traveller watched that mountain king, 
As, gazing on the dying day, 

He sat with folded wing. 
And looked the fable of the Greek — 
The bird with thunder in his beak. 

So calm, so full of quiet might 

He seemed upon his craggy throne ; 

In his dark eye so much of light. 
Of mind, of meaning shone. 

That for a moment hand and heart 

Refused to do their deadly part. 

Exulting creature ! thee no more 

The sunlight summoned from thy rest. 

On wild and warring wing to soar. 
With tempest on thy crest ; 

No more the glorious day's decline 

Brought calm repose to heart of thine. 

Whelmed in the life-stream of thy breast. 
Thine eaglets perished in their lair. 

And thou, upon thy crag-perched nest. 
In impotent despair. 

In wild, in sick, in deadly strife. 

Didst yield thy glorious mountain Ufe ! 

Then falling from thine eyry lone, 

Where oft with proud, unquailing eye, 
Thou didst survey the noonday sun, 



342 



CATHERINE WARFIELD AND ELEANOR LEE. 



To worship or defy ; 
Where oft thy voice outshrieked the blast — 
The stream received his lord at last. 

But, eagle ! no ungenerous foe 

Was he who snatched thee from the wave, 
And watched thy last, expiring throe 

With sighs for one so brave : 
He gave thee, monarch of the river, 
A name that bids thee live for ever ! 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 

RoTJirn that house, deserted lying, 
Wearily the winds are sighing 
Evermore with sound undying 

Through the empty window-pane ; 
As if with its wails distressing 
It could call each earthly blessing 
From the sods above them pressing, 

Back to live and breathe again. 

There the cuckoo sits complaining ; 
All night long her voice is straining. 
And the empoisoned oak-vine training. 

Hangs its tendrils on the wall. 
Once within those chambers dreaming, 
Gentle looks of love were gleaming, 
Gentle tones with deep love teeming 

Did unto each other call. 

Far above the roof-tree failing. 
See the hoary vulture sailing ; 
Marketh she the serpent trailing 

Underneath the threshold-stone. 
Heaven's bright messengers resembling. 
Ringdoves here of old were trembling, 
As round some fair hand assembling. 

They were fed by her alone. 

Through the chamber-windows prying. 
Softly on the dark floor lying, 
See the ghostly moonlight, flying 

Through the untrodden gloom. 
Seems it not to thee sweet faces. 
Shadowy forms of vanished graces, 
Stealing, flitting to their places. 

In that long-forsaken room 'i 

Where the darkened stairway windeth, 
There her brood the eagle mindeth, 
And with chains Arachne bindeth 

Balustrade to balustrade. 
Once so lightly upward bounding 
Fairy steps were heard resounding. 
While sweet laughter wild, astounding. 

Echoes through the mansion made. 

Round the oaken tables spreading. 
Through the hall the guests were treading. 
Where the festal lamps were shedding 

Light upon the ruby wine : 
Now swift through the doorway shrunken, 



Creeping o'er the threshold sunken. 
With the dew and starlight drunken, 
Reptile insects seem to twine. 

In the parlor, long forsaken, 
Once the lute was wont to waken ; 
And with locks all lightly shaken. 

Maids and matrons joined in mirth. 
Gentle accents here were swelling. 
Hallowed voices often telling 
Heaven alone was Virtue's dwelling : 

All these beings rest in earth. 

Mid these garden flowerets pining, 
'Neath the starlight dimly shining. 
Where the deadly vine is twining, 

Once were glorious bowers. 
Once were gladsome children playing, 
O'er the grass plots lightly straying. 
With their golden ringlets swaying 

'Neath their crowns of flowers. 

By yon gnarled oak's curious twisting. 
Here was once a lover's trysting, 
Fondly to each other listing, 

While they told their plighting vows. 
Often when the lightning streaketh. 
And the wind its branches seeketh. 
Then that olden oak-tree speaketh. 

And sweet voices fill the. boughs. 

Could we bring again the glory 
To this mansion gray and hoary. 
Flinging light on every story, 

Yet it would be desolate. 
Yet (they say) 't is doomed hereafter ; 
Forms shall gleam fi-om wall and rafter, 
Full of silent tears and laughter. 

Mingling with a human fate. 

Some indeed have said that, creeping, 
Nightly ftom the window peeping. 
Lightly from the casement leaping, 

They a ghostly maid have seen. 
On the broken gate she swingeth, 
And her wanUke hands she wringeth. 
And with garments white she vringeth 

O'er the grassy plain so green. 

To the dark oak-tree she cometh. 
Round its trunk she wildly roameth. 
Shuddering, as the dark stream foameth ; 

There she roves till break of day. 
Hers they say was love ilUcit, 
Yet firom out her murdered spirit 
This sad mansion did inherit 

A curse never done away ! 

Therefore, in the balance weighing. 

Underneath the rods decaying. 

With their white handj clasped as praying. 

Sleep the owners of the spot ; 
While this home of the departed, 
Making sad the lightest-hearted, 
Standeth still, a house deserted — 

By the world, save me, forgot. 



SUSAN PINDAR. 


This clever young poet was bom at Pin- 


lished chiefly in The Knickerbocker Maga- 


dar's Vale, an estate near Wolfert's Roost, 


zine. Some of them are distinguished for a 


the seat of Mr. Irving, on the Hudson. Her 


graceful play of fancy and womanly feeling, 


father, who had been engaged in commerce, 


and others for a happy vein of wit and hu- 


failing in some importaitt speculations, went 


mor. She seems to write with much facil- 


to New Orleans to retrieve his fortunes, and 


ity, and the elegance of her compositions 


died there ; and Miss Pindar was soon after 


indicates the careful mental discipline, with- 


deprived of all near kindred by the decease 


out which no degree of genius has yet enabled 


of her brothers. Her poems have been pub- 


an author to win a desirable reputation. 


THE SPIRIT MOTHER. 


Sweet spirit mother, bless thy child ! 




And with a holy love 


AnT thou near me, spirit mother, 


Inspire my feeble energies. 


When, in the twiliglit hour, 


And lift my heart above ; 


A holy hush pervades my heart 


And when the long-imprisoned soul 


With a mysterious power : 


These earthly bonds has riven, 


While eyes of dreamy tenderness 


Be thine the wing to bear it up 


Seem gazing into mine. 


And waft it on to heaven. 


And stir the fountains of my soul — 




Sweet mother, are they thine ] 


* 


Is thine the blessed influence 


THE LADY LEONORE. 


That o'er my being flings 


Out upon the waters foaming. 


A sense of rest, as though 't were wrapped 


O'er the deep, dark sea. 


Within an angel's wings 1 


A maiden through the twilight gloaming 


A deep, abiding trustfulness. 


Gazeth earnestly ; 


That seems an earnest given 


Mighty waves, tempestuous dashing, 


Of future happiness and peace 


Burst upon the shore ; 


To those who dwell in heaven ! 


Recks she not their angry lashing. 


And ofttimes when my footsteps stray 
In error's shining track. 


Heeds she not the tempest crashing, 
Lady Leonore ! 


There comes a soft, restraining voice, 


She was Beauty's fairest daughter, 


That seems to call me back; 


Glorious in her pride ; 


I hear it not with outward ears, 


Noble suitors oft had sought her, 


But with a power divine 


Countless hearts had sighed ; 


Its whisper thrills my inmost soul : 


Vainly the impassioned lover 


Sweet mother, is it thine 1 


Burning words did pour : 


It well may be, for know we not 


Bright and cold as stars above her, 


That beings all unseen 


Failed all tearful sighs to move her, 


Are ever hovering o'er our paths, 


Cruel Leonore ! 


The earth and sky between ? 


One there was, of noble bearmg. 


They 're with us in our daily walks, 


Lowly in his birth — 


And tireless vigils keep, 


Worthy he of all comparing 


To weave those happy fantasies 


With the great of earth ; 


That bless our hours of sleep ! 


Dared he own Love's sacred feeling, 


Oh, could we feel that spirit-eyes 


The humble troubadour ? 


For ever on us gaze. 


O'er his harp-strings wildly stealing. 


And watch each idle thought that threads 


Every strain his soul revealing, 


The heart's bewildering maze. 


Worshipped Leonore. 


Would we not guard each careless word, 


Loved she him 1 — what soil commotion 


All sinful feelings quell. 


Stirred within her breast, 


Lest we should grieve the cherished ones 


Wakening each fond emotion 


We loved on earth so well ? 


With a sweet unrest . 
343 



344 



SUSAN PINDAR. 



Pride all tender ties doth sever — 

And they met no more. 
Could she wed a minstrel 1 — never ! 
Left he then his home for ever — 

Haughty Leonore ! 

Now his image sadly keeping 

Shrined within her heart, 
Dimmed her eyes with ceaseless weeping, 

Smiles for aye depart; 
Love with fond resistless yearning 

Bids her him restore ; 
While the beacon-light is burning, 
Waiteth she his glad returning. 

Tender Leonore ! 

Wildly now the tempest rushing 

On its fearful path. 
Every fated object crushing 

In its furious wrath. 
List ! — that shriek of wo despairing, 

Eising mid the roar ; 
To her heart what anguish bearing, 
Where she stands the storm-king daring. 

Faithful Leonore ! 

Soon the early dawn is breaking, 

Glorious and serene. 
And the sun, in splendor waking. 

Smiles upon the scene. 
A maiden clasps her lifeless lover 

On the wreck-strewn shore : 
Moaning surges break above her — 
But for her all storms are over, 

Hapless Leonore ! 



BUEIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONaUEROR. 

With slow and solemn tread. 
Through aisles where warrior-figures grim 

Stand forth in shadowy gloom. 
While loudly peals the funeral hymn, 
And censors waft perfume. 
Bring they the kingly dead. 

They bear him to his rest, 
Around whose lofty deeds is cast 

The panoply of fame ; 
Who gave his war-cry to the blast, > 
And left a conqueror's mighty name 
His nation's proud bequest. 

Around his royal bier 
The chieftains stand, in reverence bowed, 

Amid a hush profound ; 
W hen from the vast assembled crowd 
A solemn voice, with warning sound, 
Rung on each startled ear. 

•' Forbear !" it cried, " forbear ! 
Tins ground mine heritage I claim ; 
Here bloomed our household vine, 
Until this dread despoiler came. 

And crushed its roots to raise this shrinfi. 
In mockery of prayer ! 

" By all your hopes of earth. 
As ye before the throne of Heaven 
In judgment shall appear, 



As ye would pray your sins forgiven, 
Lay not the tyrant's ashes here 
Upon ray father's hearth !" 
Mute stood those vparriors bold. 
Each swarthy cheek grew red with shame. 

That ne'er with fear had paled ; 

And for his dust, before whose name 

The bravest hearts in terror quailed. 

They bought a grave with gold. 

Oh, Victory, veil thy brow ! 

What are thy pageants of an hour — 

Thy wreath, when stained with crime 1 
Oh, fame, ambition, haughty power I 
Ye bubbles on the stream of time. 
Where are your glories now ? 



LAURALIE. 

Lighter than the sunbeam's ray. 

Dawning on the sea, 
Graceful as a moonlight fay. 
Was she who won all hearts away — 

Lauralie ! 
Tresses bright of golden hair, 

Flowing wild and fi-ee, 
Down her cheek beyond compare. 
Nestling in her bosom fair — 

Lauralie ! 
By the heaven within her eyes, 

Plainly might you see. 
She had stolen their glorious dyes 
From the laughing summer skies — 

LauraUe ! 
Less beautiful than good and kind. 

Pure as snow was she ; 
All gentle thoughts dwelt in her mind, 
By innocence and truth refined — 

Lauralie I 
A tall knight came, with hearing bold. 

And tender vows breathed he ; 
Alas I a tale too often told. 
He won her heart, his love waned cold — 

Lauralie ! 
He brought a fair and haughty bride 

From o'er the sea ; 
And as he feasted at her side, 
A maiden sought his feet and died — 

Lauralie ! 
Now doth the broken-hearted sleep 

Beneath the linden tree ; 
Above the sod the wild vines creep, 
And maidens seek the spot to weep ; 

Lauralie ! 
But he — the false one ! — knows not rest. 

Dishonored now is he ; 
His faithless bride has left liis breast : 
Oh, well are all thy wrongs redressed, 

Laurahe ! 
A maniac wild, he smiles no more. 

But wanders by the sea. 
And mutters, mid the tempest's roar. 
The name he traces on the shore — 

Lauralie ! 



SUSAN PINDAR. 



345 



GREENWOOD. 

Thebe is a spot far in the green still wood, 
Where Nature reigns in majesty alone, 
Where the tall trees for countless years have stood, 
And flowers have bloomed and faded all unknown ; 
Where fearless birds soar through the morning skies, 
And fill the air with varied melodies. 
While o'er the water's breast dark shadows brood, 
Flung by the clustering boughs, a glorious soUtude ! 

It is a holy place, so calm and still. 
So wrapped in shades of peaceful quietude : 
A sense of awe the inmost soul doth thrill, 
And tunes the spirit to a higher mood, 
When in the precincts of that sacred spot 
The busy cares of Ufe are all forgot. 
Let not a foot-fall, with irreverent sound, 
Startle the echoes of the hallowed ground. 

The dead are with us, where green branches wave, 
And where the pine boughs cast a deeper gloom ; 
Yonder a rose-tree marks an early grave. 
And there proud manhood sleeps beneath the tomb ; 
The young high heart with vague, bright dreamings 
Too pure for earth, yet haply now fulfilled, [filled, 
Lies mute, perchance by his who knew not rest. 
Until the damp sod pressed his aching breast. 

And doth it not seem meet, 
That there earth's weary pilgrims should repose, 
Far from the hurrying tread of eager feet, 
Where the last sunbeams at the daylight's close 
Quiver hke golden harpstrings mid the trees, 
While with a spirit's touch the evening breeze 
Wakens a requiem for the sleepers there. 
And Nature's every breath seems fraught with 



prayer 



And when the twilight, in her robe of gray, 
Flings o'er the earth a veil of mystic light. 
While as the glow of even melts away. 
The stars above grow more intensely bright, 
Even as the promise that our God has given, 
As fade our hopes on earth, so grow they bright in 

heaven : 
Might we not deem them holy spirit-eyes. 
Their vigils keeping in the silent skies 1 

Oh, noiseless city of the mighty dead ! 
Lonely and mute, yet are thy annals fraught 
With solemn teachings, and thy broad page spread 
With the rich lore of soul-awakening thought ; 
And when the wanderer on the future shores 
Shall seek its hidden mysteries to explore. 
Thy hallowed shades, with spirit-voices rife. 
May lead him onward to the gates of life. 



THOUGHTS IN SPaiNG-TIME. 

Fin in some still, sequestered nook. 
Removed from worldly strife, 

How calmly, like a placid brook. 
Would glide the stream of life ! 

How sweet in temples God has made 
To raise the voice of prayer. 

While songsters from the leafy glade 
With music fill the air ! 

Does not the spirit seem to spurn 
The fettered thoughts of earth. 

And with a holier impulse turn 
To things of higher birth 1 

When in the forests' vast arcade. 
Where man has seldom trod. 

Amid the works that he has made, 
We stand alone with God 1 

When gazing on fair Nature's face. 

Untouched by hand of art. 
In every leaf his love we trace. 

What feelings thrill the heart ! 

The diamond dew-drop on the spray. 

Each early-fading flower. 
The glittering insects of a day — 

All show God's wondrous power : 

And teach us by their helplessness 

Of his unwearied care. 
Who gives the lily's vestal dress, 

And bids us not despair. 

When in the fading light of day 

The forest trees grow dim. 
And evening comes in sober gray. 

How turn our souls to him ! 

There is no sound upon the air, 

All living things are still — 
A solemn hush as if of prayer. 

Is brooding o'er the hill ; 

While far above, like spirit-eyes. 

The stars their vigils keep, 
And smile on the fair stream that lies 

Upon earth's breast, asleep. 

There is a spell that binds the heart 
At this most hallowed hour. 

And bids all earth-born thoughts depart, 
Beneath its holy power. 

And when to all created things 

A voice of praise is given. 
The spirit seems on angel wings 

To soar aloft to Heaven. 



CAROLINE MAY. 


Miss Cakoline May, a daughter of the 


the present year she has published, in Phila- 


Rev. Edward Harrison May, minister of one 


delphia, a volume entitled Specimens of the 


of the Reformed Dutch churches in the city 


American Female Poets. Miss May has given 


of New York, is the author of many very 


few of her compositions to the public, and the 


graceful and striking poems ; and during 


following, except one, are now first printed. 


THE SABBATH OF THE YEAR. 


TO A STUDENT. 


It is the sabbath of the year ; 


Give thyself to the beauty 


And if ye '11 walk abroad. 


Of this September day ! 


A holy sermon ye shall hear, 


And let it be thy duty 


Full worthy of record. 


To treasure every ray 


Autumn the preacher is ; and look — • 


Of the sweet light that streams abroad, 


As other preachers do. 


An emblem of its Maker, God ! 


He takes a text from the one Great Book, 
A text both sad and true. 


Oh ! put away the learning 
Of science and of art ; 


With a deep, earnest voice, he saith — 


And stifle not the yearning 


A voice of gentle grief, 


That swells within thy heart. 


Fitting the minister of Death — 


To look upon, and love, and bless, 


" Ye all fade as a leaf; 


Departing Summer's loveliness ! 


And your iniquities, like the wind, 


Go out into the garden. 


Have taken you away ; 


And taste the sweetness there — 


Ye fading flutterers, weak and blind. 
Repent, return, and pray." 


(Thy books will surely pardon 
A pause from studious care) — 


And then the Wind ariseth slow, 


Of the still lavish mignonette, 


And giveth out a psalm — • 


And the few flowers that linger yet. 


And the organ-pipes begin to blow. 


Go, feel the sweet caressing 


Within the forest calm ; 


Of the south wind on thy cheek — 


Then all the Trees lift up their hands. 


Kind as the breathed-out blessing 


And lift their voices higher. 


Of one too sad to speak ; 


And sing the notes of spirit bands 


And mournful in its music low 


In full and glorious choir. 


As the dim thoughts of long ago. 


Yes ! 'tis the sabbath of the year ! 


Lift up thy face in gladness 


And it doth surely seem, 


To the sky so soft and warm. 


(But words of reverence and fear 


And watch the frolic madness 


Should speak of such a theme,) 


Of the changeful clouds, that form 


That the corn is gathered for the bread, 


A mimic shape, in every change. 


And the berries for the wine, 


Of something beautiful and strange. 


And a sacramental feast is spread, 


Or go, if thou wouldst rather. 


Like the Christian's pardon sign. 


To the distant woods, and see 


And the Year, with sighs of penitence, 


How surely thou wilt gather 


The holy feast bends o'er ; 


From forest harmony 


For she must die, and go out hence — 


Sweet themes for present songs of praise, 


Die, and be seen no more. 


And hoards of thought for future lays. 


Then are the choir and organ still. 


Oh ! it will make thee better. 


The psalm melts in the air. 


More wise, and glad, and kind, 


The Wind bows down beside the hill. 


To throw oflF every fetter. 


And aU are hushed in prayer. 


And go with pliant mind — 


Then comes the Sunset in the west, 


Like a free, open-hearted child, 


Like a patriarch of old. 


To wander in the forests wild. 


Or like a saint who hath won his rest. 


The love of Nature heightens 


His robes, and his crown of gold ; 


Our love to God and man ; 


And forth his arms he stretcheth wide, 


And a spirit, Love enlightens, 


And with solemn tone and clear 


Farther than others can, % 


He blesseth, in the eventide. 


Pierces with clear and steady eyes 


The sabbath of the year. 


Into the land where true thought lies ! 
346 



CAROLINE MAT. 



347 



SONNETS. 

I. ON A "WARM NOVEMBER DAT. 

Is this November 1 It must surely be 
That some sweet May day, like a merry girl 
With eye of laughing blue, and golden curl, 

In the excess of her light-hearted glee. 
Has run too far from home, and lost her way ; 

And now she trembles, while upon the air 

Flutter the rainbow ribands of her hair. 
And her warm breath comes quick, for fear her play 

Should into danger her wild footsteps bring ! 
She sees herself upon the barren heath 
Where, happily, November slumbereth : 

What, should he wake, and find her trespassing ! 
Yet, weep not, wanderer ! for I know ere night 
Thou wilt be home again laughing with safe delight. 



11. ON" THE APPROACH OF WINTER. 

Now comes the herald of stern Winter. Hear 
The blast of his loud trumpet through the air, 
Bidding collected families prepare 

For the fierce king, without delay or fear ; 

Not seacoal fires alone, or cordial cheer 
Of generous wine, or raiment thick and warm. 
Though these may make the bleak and boisterous 

A picture for the eye, and music for the ear ; [storm 

But laws of kindness, simple and sincere, 
Patient forbearance, and sweet cheerfulness, 
And gentle charity that loves to bless — 

To hide all faults as soon as they appear. 
Without such stores, bought by no golden price, 
Winter may lieeze the human blood to ice ! 



III. THODGHT. 



So truly, faithfully, my heart is thine. 
Dear Thought, that when I am debarred from thee 
By the vain tumult of vain company ; 

And when it seems to be the fixed design 

Of heedless hearts, who never can incline 
Themselves to seek thy rich though hidden charms. 
To keep me daily from thy outstretched arms — 

My soul sinks faint within me, and I pine 
As lover pines when from his love apart, 

Who, after having been long loved, long sought. 
At length has given to bis persuasive art 

Her generous soul with hope and fear full fraught ; 
For thou'rt the honored mistress of my heart, 

Pure, quiet, bountiful, beloved Thought ! 



Like the glad skylark, who each early morn 
Springs from his shady nest of weeds or flowers. 

And whether stormy clouds, or bright, are born, 
Pierces the realm of sunshine and of showers ; 

And with untiring wing and steady eye. 
And never ceasing song, (so loud and sweet, 
So full of trusting love, that it is meet 

It should be poured forth at heaven's portals high,) 
Bears up his sacrifice of gratitude : 

So Hope — the one, the only Hope — spreads out 
Her wings from the heart's tearful solitude, 

(Shadowed too oft with weeds,) quivers about 



The cloudy caves of earth, till sudden strength is 

given 
To dart above them all, and soar with songs to 

heaven. 



T. MEMORY. 

Like the full-hearted nightingale, 
Who careth not to sing her sad, sweet strain 

To open Dayhght ; but when pale 
And thoughtful Evening sheds o'er plain, 

And hill, and vale, a quiet sense 
Of loneliness unbroken, then she gives 

Her soul to the deep influence 
Of silence and of shade, and lives 

A life of mournful melody 

In one short night : so Memory, 
Shrinking from daylight's glare and noise. 
Reserves her melancholy joys 

For the dark stillness of the holy night, 

And then she pours them forth till dawning light 



LILIES. 



Evert flower is sweet to me — 

The rose and violet, 
The pink, the daisy, and sweet pea, 

Heart's-ease and mignonette. 
And hyacinths and daffodillies : 
But sweetest are the spotless lilies. 

I know not what the lilies were 
That grew in ancient times — 

When Jesus walked with children fair, 
Through groves of eastern climes. 

And made each flower, as he passed by it, 

A type of faith, content, and quiet. 

But they were not more pure and bright 
Than those our gardens show ; 

Or those that shed their silver light, 
Where the dark waters flow ; 

Or those that hide in woodland alley, 

The fragrant hlies of the valley. 

And I, in each of them, would see 

Some lesson for my youth : 
The lovehness of purity. 

The stateliness of truth, 
Whene'er I look upon the lustre 
Of those that in the garden cluster. 

Patience and hope, that keep the soul 

Unruffled and secure. 
Though floods of grief beneath it roll, 

I learn, when calm and pure 
I see the floating water-lily. 
Gleam amid shadows dark and chilly. 

And when the fragrance that ascends. 

Shows where its lovely face 
The lily of the valley bends, 

I think of that sweet grace. 
Which sheds within the spirit lowly, 
A rest, hke heaven's, so safe and holy. 



048 CAROLINE MAY. 


TO NATURE. 


To the imprisoning city 




From these haunts I pass, 


EocKs, and woods, and water. 


And this quiet nook will be 


I am now with ye ! 


Seen alone in memory. 


What a grateftil daughter 

Ought I not to be ! 
Alone with Nature — oh, what bliss, 


Rocks, and woods, and water. 
Now I am with ye. 


What a privilege is this ! 


And a grateful daughter 
Ever will I be — 


Give me now a blessing, 


Loving ye, e'en when ye are 


Help my tongue to speak 


From my loving heart afar. 


The feelings that are pressing 
Till my heart grows weak — ■ 




* 


Faint with the strange influence 


mTTTn rtTTVT 


Of this wild magnificence. 


THE SUN. 


I shut my eyes a minute, 


When the bounteous summer-time 


Listening to the sound : 


Threw the riches of its prime. 


Music is there in it, 


Corn and grass, and fruit and flowers, 


Stirring and profound ! 


Upon meadows, fields, and bowers ; 


Wild-voiced waters, babbling breeze, 


When the teeming earth below 


Telling tales of aged trees : 


Seemed to quiver in the glow 




Of the sky, intensely bright 


And the echoes — hearken ! 


With luxuriant, melting light — 


There they chiefly dwell, 


Then we ever tried to shun 


Where those huge rocks darken 


The advances of the sun : 


That green woody dell : 


Flying from his burning glance, 


Hearken with what joy they spring. 


If he looked at us by chance ; 


When the village church bells ring ! 


Shutting out his beams, if they 


Up I look, and follow 


Ever boldly dared to stray 


With my eyes the sound, 


To our dark and fragrant room. 


Fading in the hollow 


Rendered cool by quiet gloom. 


Of the hills around ; 


Now the summer time is gone, 


Then I clasp my hands and sigh, 


And the winds begin to mourn ; 


That so soon the echoes die. 


Now the yellow leaves fall down, 




And the grass is turning brown. 


And I think how fleetly 


And the flowers are dying fast ; 


Pleasures that we prize. 


Now the chill, destroying blast, 


Like the echoes, sweetly 


Seems to whisper in the vine 


Fade before our eyes : 


A sad warning of decline — 


But 'tis well, 'tis well for me, 


We invoke the sun's warm ray, 


Prone to earth idolatry. 


And we bless it all the day ; 


Oh ! ye kingly mountains. 

With your cedar woods ; 

Closing diamond fountains 


Looking up, as to a friend. 


When its beams on us descend ; 


And we watch it down the west. 


In their solitudes ; 


As it early sinks to rest : 


In my very soul ye dwell — 

Can I love ye then too well t ' 


Then, with sorrow at our hearts, 
Sigh, " How soon the sun departs !" 


So, in brightest summer tide 


Oh ! ye clouds of glory. 


Of prosperity and pride, 


That your crimson tlurow 


Wlien our friends are kind and warm, 


On the old rocks hoary, 


And we dream not of the storm — 


While the stream below 


Then we hide in our recess 


Sleeps in an unbroken shade : 


From the Sun of Righteousness, 


Can too much of ye be made ? 


Closing up our soul and sight 


Can I love to Imge-r 


To his strong and piercing light. 


In this quiet nook. 
Tracing Nature's finger 
Reading Nature's book. 


But when the autumn blast 
Of desertion sweepeth past. 
Then we cry — by grief made bold— 


Till such lingering be wrong — • 
Reading, tracing there too long 1 


" We are desolate and cold ! 
Let thy beams descend, and heal 




The soul-smartinir wounds we feel ; 


If so, 'tis no pity ; 


Shine upon us, Christ our Sun — 


For too soon, alas ! 


Without thee we ai-e undone !" 



EMILY NEAL. 



Miss Emily Bkadlet, a native of the city 
of Hudson, in New York, was married in 1846 
to the late Joseph C. Neal, of Philadelphia, 
an author and a man who will be regretted 
while any of his acquaintances are living. 
She was educated at a boarding-school in 
New Hampshire, and was known as a wri- 
ter by many spirited compositions, chiefly in 
prose, published under the signature of "Al- 



ice G. Lee." Since the death of Mr. Neal, 
in the summer of 1847, Mrs. Neal has contin- 
ued, in Philadelphia, with much tact and abil- 
ity, the popular journal of which he was the 
editor, called Neal's Saturday Evening Ga- 
zette. There has been no collection of the 
writings of Mrs. Neal, and they are scattered 
through several of the popular literary mis- 
cellanies to which she has been a contributor. 



THE BRIDE'S CONFESSION. 

A SUDDEN- thrill passed through my heart, 

Willi and intense — yet not of pain — 
I strove to quell quick-boniiding throbs, 

And scanned the sentence o'er again. 
It might have been full idly penned 

By one whose thoughts from love were free, 
And yet, as if entranced, I read — ■ 

" Thou art most beautiful to me." 

Thou didst not whisper I was loved; 

There were no gleams of tenderness. 
Save those my trembling heart would hope 

That careless sentence might express. 
But while the blinding tears fell fast. 

Until the words I scarce could see, 
There shone, as through a wreathing mist — 

" Thou art most beautiful to me." 

To thee ] — I cared not for all eyes, 

So I was beautiful in thine ! 
A timid star-, ray faint, sad beams 

Upon thy path alone should shine. 
Oh, what was praise, save from thy lips 1 

And love should all unheeded be, 
So I could hear thy blessed voice 

Say, " Thou art beautiful to me." 

And I have heard those very words — 

Blushing beneath thine earnest gaze — 
Though thou perchance hadst quite forgot 

They had been said in bygone days : 
While clasped hand and circling arm 

Then drew me nearer still to thee. 
Thy low voice breathed upon mine ear — 

" Thou, love, art beautiful to me.'' 

And, dearest, though thine eyes alone 

May see in me a single grace, 
I care not, so thou e'er canst find 

A hidden sweetness in my face. 
And if, as years and cares steal on. 

Even that lingering light must flee. 
What matter, if from thee I hear — ■ 

" Thou art still beautiful to me !" 



MIDNIGHT AND DAYBREAK. 

I HAD been tossing through the restless night. 
Sleep banished from my pillow, and my brain 
Weary with sense of dull and stifling pain. 

Yearning and praying for the blessed light. 

My lips moaned thy dear name, beloved one ! 
Yet I have seen thee lying stiff and cold, 
Thy form bound only by the shroud's pure fold. 

For life with all its suffering was done. 

Then agony of loneliness o'ercame 
My widowed heart ; night would fit emblem seem 
For the evanishing of that bright dream : 

The heavens were dark, my life henceforth the same ; 
No hope — its pulse within my breast was dead. 

Once more I sought the casement. Lo ! a ray. 
Faint and uncertain, struggled through the gloom, 
And shed a misty twilight on the room ; 

Long watched-for herald of the coming day ! 

It brought a thrill of gladness to my breast. 
With clasped hands and streaming eyes I prayed, 
Thanking my God for light, though long delayed ; 

And gentle calm stole o'er my wild unrest. 

" Oh soul !" I said, " thy boding murmurs cease ; 
Though sorrow bind thee as a funeral pall. 
Thy Father's hand is guiding thee through all ; 

His love will bring a true and perfect peace. 
Look upward once again : though drear the night. 
Earth may be darkness, Hcav'n will give thee light." 



THE CHURCH. 

Clad in a robe of pure and spotless white, 
The youthful bride with timid step comes forth 
To greet the hand to which she plights her troth, 

Her soft eyes radiant with a strange delight. 

The snowy veil which circles her around 
Shades the sweet face from every gazer's eye. 
And thus enwrapped, she passes calmly by — 

Nor casts a look but on the unconscious ground. 

So should the Church, the bride elect of Heaven — 

Remembering Whom she goeth forth to meet 

349 



350 



EMILY NEAL. 



And with a truth that can not brook deceit 
Holding the faith which unto her is given — 
Passthrough this worId,whichcIaimsher for awhile, 
Nor cast about her longing look, nor smile. 



BLIND! 



"The hand of the operator "wavered -the inHtrument g.anced aside — in 
a moment she waa blind for Ufe." 

Blind, said youl BUnd for life! 
'T is but a jest — no, no, it can not be 
That I no more the blessed light may see ! 

Oh, what a fearful strife 
Of horrid thought is raging in my mind ! 
I did not hear aright — " For ever blind !" 

Mother, you would not speak 
Aught but the truth to me, your stricken child : 
Tell me I do but dream ; my brain is wild, 

And yet my heart is weak. 
Oh, mother ! fold me in a close embrace — ■ 
Bend down to me that dear, that gentle face. 

I can not hear your voice ! 
Speak louder, mother. Speak to me, and say 
This frightful dream will quickly pass away. 

Have I no hope, no choice 1 

Heaven ! with light has sound, too, from me fled 1 
Call, shout aloud, as if to wake the dead ! 

Thank God ! I hear you now : 

1 hear the beating of your troubled heart ; 
With every wo of mine it has a part. 

Upon my upturned brow 
The hot tears fall from those dear eyes for me : 
Once more, oh is it true I may not see ? 

This silence chills my blood. 
Had you one word of comfort, all my fears 
Were quickly banished : faster still the tears, 

A bitter, burning flood. 
Fall on my face, and now one trembling word 
Confirms the dreadful truth my ears have heard I 

Why weep you 1 — I am calm : 
My wan lip quivers not — my heart is still. 
My swollen temples — see, they do not thrill ! 

That word was as a charm ; 
Tell me the worst : all, all I now can bear ; 
I have a fearful strength — that of despair. 

What is it to be bhnd 1 — 
To be shut out for ever from the skies — 
To see no more the " light of lovmg eyes" — 

And, as years pass, to find 
My lot unvaried by one passing gleam 
Of the bright woodland or the flashing stream 1 

To feel the breath of Spring, 
Yet not to view one of the tiny flowers 
That come from out the earth with her soft showers ; 

To hear the bright birds sing, 
And feel, while Ustening to their joyous strain. 
My heart can ne'er know happiness again ! 

Then in the solemn night 
To lie alone, while all anear me sleep, 
And fancy fearful forms about me creep: 

Starting in wild afiright. 



To know, if true, I could not have the power 
To ward off danger in that lonely hour. 

And as my breath came thick 
To feel the hideous darkness round me press. 
Adding new terror to my loneliness ; 

While every pulse leaped quick 
To clutch and grasp at the black, stifling air — 
Then sink in stupor from my wild despair. 

It comes upon me now ! 
I can not breathe ; my heart grows quick and chill ; 
Oh, mother, are your arms about me still — 

Still o'er me do you bow 1 
And yet I care not : better all alone — 
No one to heed my weakness should I moan. 

Again ! I will not live. 
Death is no worse than this eternal night — 
Those resting in the grave heed not the light ! 

Small comfort can ye give. 
Yes, Death is welcome as my only friend ; 
In the calm grave my sorrows will have end. 

Talk not to me of hope ! 
Have you not told me it is all in vain — 
That while I live I may not see again ? 

That earth, and the broad scope 
Of the blue heaven — that all things glad and free 
Henceforth are hidden — tell of hope to me ? 

It is not hard to lie 
Calmly and silently in that long sleep ; 
No fear can wake me from that slumber deep. 

So, mother, let me die ; 
I shall be happier in the gentle rest 
Than Uving with this grief to fill my breast. 



" God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb," — Stet-nt. 

Thank God that yet I live ! 
In tender mercy, heeding not the prayer 
I boldly uttered in my first despair, 

He would not rashly give 
The punishment an erring spirit braved. 
From sudden death in kindness I was saved. 

It was a fearful thought 
That this fair earth had not one pleasure left! 
I was at once of sight and hope bereft. 

My soul was not j'et taught 
To bow submissive to the sudden stroke ; 
Its crushing weight my heart had well-nigh broke. 

Words are not that can tell 
The horrid thought that burned upon my brain. 
That came and went with madness still the same — 

A black and icy spell 
ThatfrozemyUfe-blood,stopp'dmyflutteringbreath, 
Was laid upon me — even " life in death." 

Long, weary months crept by, 
And I refused all comfort; turned aside, 
Wishing that in my weakness I had died. 

I uttered no reply, 
But without ceasing wept and moaned, and prayed 
The hand of Death no longer might be stayed. 

I shunned the gaze of all : 
I knew that pity dwelt in every look ; 
Pity e'en then my proud heart could not brook ; 



EMILY NEAL. 



351 



Tliough darluiess as a pall 
Circled me round, each mournfal eye 1 felt 
That for a moment on my features dwelt. 

You, dearest mother, know 
I shrank in suUenness from your caress ; 
Even your kisses added to distress, 

For burning tears would flow 
As you bent o'er me, whispering, " Be calm, 
He who hath wounded holds for thee a balm." 

He did not seem a friend : 
T deemed in wrath the sudden blow was sent 
From a strong arm that never might relent ; 

That pain alone would end 
With life — for, mother, then it seem to me 
That long and dreamless would death's slumber be. 

That blessed illness came : 
My weakened pulse now bounded wild and strong, 
While soon a raging fever burned along 

My worn, exhausted frame ; 
And for the time all knowledge passed away — 
It mattered not that hidden was the day. 

The odor of sweet flowers 
Came steahng through the casement when I woke, 
When the wild fever-spell at last was broke ; 

And yet for many hours 
I laid in dreamy stillness, till your tone 
Called back the life that seemed for ever flown. 

You, mother, knelt in prayer ; 
While one dear hand was resting on my head, 
With sobbing voice, how fervently you plead 

For a strong heart, to bear 
The parting which you feared — " Or, if she live. 
Comfort, Father, to the stricken give ! 

" Take from her wandering mind 
The heavy load which it so long hath borne, 
Which even unto death her frame hath worn : 

Let her in mercy find. 
That though the earth she may no longer see, 
Her spirit still can look to Heaven and thee." 

A low sob from me stole : 
A moment more, your arms about me wound, 
My head upon your breast a pillow found ; 

And through my weary soul 
A holy calm came stealing from on high : 
Your prayer was answered — I was not to die. 

Then when the bell's faint chime 
Came floating gently on the burdened air, 
My heart went up to God in fervent prayer. 

And, mother, from that time 
My wild thoughts left me, hope returned once more ; 
I felt that happiness was yet in store. 

Daily new strength was given : 
For the first time since darkness on me fell, 
I passed with more of joy than words can tell 

Under the free, blue heaven ; 



I bathed my brow in the cool, gushing spring : 
How much of life those bright drops seemed to bring ! 

I crushed the devpy leaves 
Of the pale violets, and drank their breath — 
Though I had heard that at each floweret's death 

A sister blossom grieves. 
I did not care to see their glorious hues. 
Fearing the richer perfume I might lose. 

Then in the dim old wood 
I laid me down beneath a bending tree, 
And dreamed, dear mother, waking dreams of thee. 

I thought how just and good 
The Power that had so gently sealed mine eyes, 
Yet bade new pleasures and new hopes arise. 

For now in truth I find 
My Father all his promises hath kept : 
He comforts those who here in sadness wept 

" Eyes to the blind" 
Thou art, O God ! Earth I no longer see, 
Yet trustfully my spbit looks to thee. 



A MEMORY. 

Slowly fades the misty tvrilight 

O'er the thronged and noisy town ; 
Storms are gathered in the distance, 

And the clouds above it frown. 
Yet before me leaves sway lightly 

In the hushed and drowsy air. 
And the trees new-clothed in verdure 

Have no summer of despair. 

I have gazed into the darkness, 

Seeking in the busy crowd 
For a form once passing onward 

With a step as firm and proud; 
For a face upturned in gladness 

To the window where I leaned, 
Smiling with an eager welcome. 

Though a step but intervened. 

Even now my cheek is flushing 

With the rapture of that gaze. 
And my heart as then beats wildly. 

Oh, the memory of those days 
As a dear, dear dream it cometh. 

Swiftly as a dream it flies ! 
No one springeth now unto me, 

Smiling with such earnest eyes — 

No one hastens home at twilight. 

Watching for my hand to wave : 
For the form I seek so vainly 

Sleepeth in the silent grave ; 
And the eyes have smiled in dying, 

Blessing me with latest life — 
Oh, my friend ! above the discord 

Of the last, wild, earthly strife. 



CAROLINE H. CHANDLER. 



The maiden name of this fine writer was 
HiESKiLL. She was married several years 
ago to Mr. M. T. W. Chandler, a son of the 
Hon. Joseph R. Chandler, of Philadelphia, 



TO MY BROTHEB,. 

" The love where Death hath ?et lUs seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal. 

Nor faUehood disavow." — Byron. 

Weicome, O brother, to our household meeting, 

Welcome again from o'er the distant sea ; 
Long have we looked for thy familiar greeting. 

Long have we yearned to gaze once more on thee. 
Daily and nightly for thy safe returning 

Have prayers ascended from our watchful hearts, 
When, as before a shrine, for ever burning. 

The lamp of love its holy light imparts. 

How have we missed thee in our joy and sorrow ! 

How have we daily marked thy vacant place ! 
How have we fondly sighed for the fair morrow. 

That should restore to us thine own dear face ! 
The chain of love hath lost a link without thee — 

And all too slowly runs the golden sand 
Till that sweet time when, circled round about thee, 

Safe in our midst, we may behold thee stand. 

Yet with our welcome mingle strains of sadness 

Unheard before amidst our household mirth ; 
Hushed are the wonted tones of joy and gladness, 

For ever quenched the light upon our hearth. 
The star is hidden from our earnest gazing. 

Silent the music in the troubled air, 
Yet do we surely know, to heaven upraising 

Our eyes all dim with tears, that she is there. 

The Father hath received her into glorj! — 

The lamb hath refuge found within the fold; 
And though her life be as an untold story, 

Her death is writ in characters of gold. 
Oh ! little darling, with the tears fast raining, 

And the sick heart a mother only knows — 
I think of thy most patient uncomplaining. 

Submissive ever, till thy sweet life's close ; 

Of all the wealth of thy young heart's devotion — 

Of the last mortal sickness, faint unrest — 
And oh, dread thought, the little hand's last motion. 

Which even in death would clasp me to thy breast ! 
Each censure passed in chastening correction 

Upon thy childish faults, so few and light — 
Each look, each hasty word, with vain reflection, 

Comes pressing hard upon my heart to-night. 

Once more, my solitary vigil keeping, 
I watch beside thee in that silent room ; 



which is her native city. Her poems have 
appeared from time to time in the United 
Slates Gazette, and in the Philadelphia mag- 
azines. 



Counting thy pulse, as the hot blood runs leaping 
Through those young veins, soon quiet in the tomb. 

Once more I mark the dimpled cheek's deep flushing, 
Seen by the dim night-lamp ; once more thy cry 

Of mortal pain sends with a mighty rushing 
The awful thought that thou must surely die ! 

These are most dread and fearful recollections, 

Ne'er to be blotted out till Ufe hath tied ; 
Yet are there holy, comforting reflections, 

Which bloom like flowers around the early dead. 
Oh ! to believe, with meekness uncomplaining, 

In the dear mercy of God's loving sway — 
That our sore loss is her eternal gaining — 

That darkness leadeth but to perfect day. 

Ye find us not the same as when we parted, 

Oh, brother mine ! but weary and way-worn — 
Ye find us not the same as when we started 

On the dark road of life, in youth's fair morn. 
Then, with a holy and a meek confiding. 

And a fond trust, too lovely to endure. 
We dreamed not of the evil here abiding. 

For to the heart of youth all things are pure. 

The world no longer wears the same gay seeming 

That shone around it once in life's first years. 
And we have learned to mock its idle dreamings. 

And bathe its brightest hopes with bitter tears. 
Oh ! dreary is that first most sad awaking 

From the sweet confidence of early truth. 
To find Hope's rosy glass, in fragments breaking, 

Reflects no more the visions of our youth ! 

Ah! many heartshave changed since we two parted. 

And many grown apart, as time hath sped — • 
Till we have almost deemed that the true-hearted 

Abided only with the faithful dead. 
And some we trusted with a fond believing. 

Have turned and stung us to the bosom's core ; 
And life hath seemed but as a vain deceiving. 

From which we turn aside, heartsick and sore. 

Oh, brother I this is but a mournful greeting 

With which to hail the wanderer's return ; 
My lay, responsive to my heart's sad heating, 

'Tells but of death — the ashes and the urn. 
Yet must we wait, God's own good time abiding. 

And faithful labor at the task below — 
Till his just hand, the good and ill dividing. 

Shall change to future joy our present wo. 
352 



ELIZA L. SPROAT. 



Miss Spkoat is a native and a resident of 
Philadelphia. She is the author of many- 
fanciful and brilliant poems, of which a few 



have recently been printed in literary miscel- 
lanies. She has wit, delicacy, and a pleas- 
inff vein of sentiment. 



THE PRISONER'S CHILD. 

The dull, chill prison building, 

Oh, what a gloomy sight ! 
It wears in boldest morning 

The coward scowl of Night. 
The warm, fresh Light approaches. 

And shuddering turns away : 
Within its shadow looming foul 

No joysome thing will stay. 
Yet there's a light within my cell, 

A lovely light its walls enclose ; 
My happy child — my daughter pure — 

My wild, wild rose. 
The prison sounds are dreary 

To one who hears thera long ; 
The murderer talking to himself— 

The drunkard's crazy song. 
My prison-door grates harshly. 

It bodes the jailer's scowl ; 
The jailer's dog sleeps all the day, 

To wake at night and howl. 
Yet there is music in my cell. 

And Joy's own voice its walls enclose ; 
My heaven-bird — my gladsome girl — 

My wild, wild rose. 
Her mellow, golden accents 

O'erflow the air around. 
As if the joyous sunshine 

Resolved itself to sound. 
She carols clear at morning. 

And prattles sweet at noon ; 
She sings to rest the weary sun. 

And ringeth up the moon ; 
And when in sleep she visits home, 

(My daughter knows the angels well,) 
She '11 fearless rouse the awful night. 

Her happy dreams to tell. 
Oh, some have many treasures. 

But other I have none ; 
The dear Creator gave me 

My blessings all in one. 
The wealth of many jewels 

Is garnered in her eyes ; 
The worth of many loving hearts 

Within her bosom lies ; 
She's more to me than daily bread. 

And more to me than night's repose : 
My staff, my flower, my praise, my prayer — 

My wild, wild rose. 
23 



A EEW STRAY SUNBEAMS. 

Little dainty Sunbeams ! 

Listen when you please. 
You '11 not hear their tiny feet 

Dancing in the trees : 
All so light and delicate 

Is their golden tread. 
Not a single flower-leaf 

Such a step may dread. 

Merry, laughing Sunbeams, 

Playing here and there. 
Passing through the rose-leaves. 

Flashing everywhere ; 
Through the cottage wmdow. 

In the cottage door. 
Past the green, entangled vines. 

On the cottage floor. 

Lovely little Sunbeams, 

Laughing as they played 
Through the flying ringlets 

Of the cottage maid ; 
Staying but to flush her cheek, 

Darting in their glee 
Down the darkened forest-path, 

O'er the open lea. 
Through the castle window 

Where, in curtained gloom, 
Sat its lovely mistress 

In her splendid bloom ! 

Oh ye saucy Sunbeams ! 

Could ye dare to spy 
Time's annoying footmarks 

Near a lady's eye ? 
Dare ye flash around her. 

Every line to see. 
Lighting each stray wrinkle up 

In your cruel glee t 

See ! the witching Sunbeams 

With the wand they hold. 
Turn the earth to emerald. 

And the skies to gold ; 
All the streams are silver 

'Neath their magic rare , 
All the black tears Night hath shed. 

Gems for kings to wear. 
Beautiful is moonlight. 

Like to Nature's mind, 
353 



354 



HARRIET LISZT. 



Purely white and brilliant, 

Coldly, calmly kind : 
Beautiful thy burning stars, 

Like to Nature's soul, 
Rapturous that ever gaze, 

Heavenward as they roll. 
But oh ! the human sunhght, 

Flooding earth in glee. 
Nature's living, laughing, loving, 

Gladsome heart for me ! 



GUONARE. 

Whereto shall I hken thee, 

Holy Guonare 1 
To the waves that leap so free. 

Or the flowers that smile so fairl — 
Fearless as the bounding wave. 

Meek as any little flower, 
God to woman never gave 

More of love with more of power. 

Thou art not a violet, 

Feeble, shrinking, sweet, and frail ; 
Wrongful scorn could never yet 

Cause thy heart to quail. 
Thou art not a sunbright rose, 

Tossing bold her lovely form 
With each breeze that comes and goes — 

Laughing, gaudy, flushed, and warm. 

Thou art like a lily, standing 

Near the rose's gaudy form ; 
Like a pure, cool lily, bending 

Near the rose all flushed and warm. 
Thou art like a great, bright star, 

Shining clearly, calmly forth, 
Through some chasm in a cloud 

Darkly shrouding all the earth. 

Thou art like a rainbow fair, 

Gleaning brightness still from sorrow, 



Turning tears to hope-gems rare. 
Showing still a glad to-morrow. 

Thou hast looked upon the stars 
Till thine eyes are darkly bright, 

Beaming forth in broadest day 
Strange and holy light. 

Thou art all a mystery. 

Wondrous Guonare ! 
I could almost fancy thee 

(Looking on thine eys so rare) 
Some mistaken spirit, landing 

On this shore of care and cark — 
One of God's white angels, standing 

In a world of dark. 

Maiden, dost thou never blush 1 

Woman, dost thou never weep T 
Hold sad talks with Night and Care, 

While God's happy sleep ■! 
Dost thou never teach thy brow 

A wreath of glowing smiles to wear. 
To hide the crown of thorns below. 

Calm-eyed Guonare ^ 

Passion hath no charm 

To lure thy heavenward eye ; 
Care and Sin but look on thee. 

And pass in wonder by. 
Thou hast surely brought to earth 

Charms to keep thee passion-free — 
Memories of thy heaven-birth 

And thine immortaUty. 

Or, mayhap the angels fair, 

Sporting in their raptured glee. 
When thy soul to earth was lent. 

Then forgot to proffer thee 
Drink from that dim, awful river, 

Alway since to mortals given. 
Where the earth-doomed soul for ever 

Loses sight of heaven. 



HARRIET LISZT. 



Miss Harriet Winslow, a native of Port- 
land, in Maine, was married in 1848 to Mr. 
Charles Liszt, of Pennsylvania, and they have 



since resided in Boston. Mrs. Liszt is the au- 
thor of a few beautiful poems, thegr eater num- 
ber of which have been printed in the annuals. 



WHY THIS LONGING? 

Wrt th.s longing, thus for ever sighing 

For the far off, unattained, and dim; 
While the beautiful, all round thee lying. 

Offers up its low, perpetual hymn 1 
Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, 

All thy restless yearning it would still : 
Leaf, and flower, and laden bee, are preaching 

Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. 
Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee 

Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw ; 
If no silken cord of love hath bound thee 



To some little world through weal or wo ; 
If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten — 

No fond voices answer to thine own ; 
If no brother's sorrow thou cnnst lighten 

By daily sympathy and gentle tone. 
Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses ; 

Not by works that give thee world-renown ; 
Not by martyrdom, or vaunted crosses. 

Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown : 
Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely. 

Every day a rich reward will give ; 
Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only, 

And truly loving, thou canst truly live. 



JULIET H. L. CAMPBELL. 



Miss Juliet H. Lewis, now Mrs. Camp- 
bell, is a daughter of the Hon. Ellis Lewis, 
president of tlie second judicial district of 
Pennsylvania. At an early age she distin- 
guished herself as a writer of poetry ; and 
since her marriage, to Mr. James H. Camp- 
bell, a member of the bar of Pottsville, ou 
the seventh of June, 1843, she has been a 
frequent contributor, of both prose and verse, 
to the magazines and annuals. During many 
years of her maiden life she was an only 
child, and, without companions of her own 
age, was in constant association with her 
parents. She frequently accompanied her 
father on his professional and judicial jour- 
neys ; and I remember meeting her at West 



year, 



Point, ill her fourteenth or fifteenth 
while Judge Lewis was discharging the 
duties of an oflScial visiter to the Military 
Academy there. She had then a reputation 
for genius, and a few exhibitions of her pre- 
cocious powers had caused her to be ranked 
with the Davidsons, who were then subjects 
of much conversation. Judge Lewis is a 
student of 

" The old and antique rhyme," 
and a poet of no mean powers ; and to the 
peculiar nature of her filial relations, and her 
consequent intimacy with many persons of 
eminent abilities and dignified character, she 
owes the early development of her capacities 
and her accurate knowledge of the world. 



DREAMS. 

Many, oh man ! are the wild dreams beguiling 
Thy spirit of its restlessness, and ever 
Thou rushest onward, some new prize pursuing, 
Like the mad waves of a relentless river. 
First love, the morning sun of thy existence. 
Enchants thy path with glories and with bUss : 
Oh linger ! for the shadowy hereafter 
Hatli naught to offer that can equal this. 

Linger, and revel in thy first young dreaming, 
The holiest that can thrill thy yearning heart — 
Husband the precious moments, the brief feeUng 
Of youthful ecstasy will soon depart. 
Seek not to win too soon that which thou lovest, 
M^hen winning will but break the magic spell ; 
Love on, but seek not, strive not — the attainment 
Will cloy thy fickle heart, thy dream dispel. 

Vain is the warning ! Death as soon will listen 
To the beseechings of his stricken prey ; 
Or Time wdl tarry when the cowering nations 
Shrink from their desolating destiny ! 
Thou art as fierce as Fate in thy pursuing — 
Thou art impetuous as the flight of Time ; 
And didst thou love a star, thy mad presuming 
Would seek to grasp it, though thou thus shouldst 
break th' eternal chime. 

And now Ambition, like a radiant angel. 
Attracts thy vision and enchains thy thought : 
Ambition is thy god, and thou art laying 
Thy all before the insatiate Juggernaut ; 
The health, the strength, which crowned thy youth 
with glory. 



The friends who loved thee in thy early day, 
The clinging love which once thy bosom cherished — 
All these are cast, like worthless weeds, away. 

Take now the prize for which thou 'st madly bar- 
tered, 
Thy first, best treasures ; and in lonely grief 
Enjoy Fame's emptiness, and, broken hearted, 
Feed on the poison of thy laurel leaf; 
Then, sated, turn in bitter disppointment 
From the applause of Flattery's fawning troop. 
And curse, within thy cheated heart's recesses, 
Ambition's demon, and thyself his dupe ! 

These are the visions of thy youth and manhood : 
With disappointment wilt thou grow more sage ] 
Alas, more grovelling yet, and more degrading, 
Is avarice, the sordid dream of age ! 
When all the joys of summer have departed, 
And life is stripped alike of birds and bloom, 
'T is sad to see Age, in his dotage, treasure 
The withered leaves beside his yawning tomb I 

Yes, many are thy dreams, while gentle woman 
Hath but one vision, and it is of thee ! 
Faith, hope, and charity, (most Christian graces,) 
In her meek bosom dwell, a trinity 
Combined in unit ; and an earthly godhead, 
Whose name is Love, demands her worshipping: 
And she, e'en as the Hindoo to his idol, 
The blind devotion of her heart doth bring ; 
And when her god of clay hath disappointed. 
Earth can enchant no more — she looks above. 
Laying her crushed heart on her Savior's bosom: 
Love was her heaven, now Heaven is her love. 
.-Hofl 



356 



JULIET H. L. CAMPBELL. 



NIGHT-BLOOMING FLOWERS. 

Faik buds ! I've wandered day by day 

To this sequestered spot, 
That I might catch your earliest smiles, 

And yet ye open not. 
The morning mists are scattered now, 

No cloud is in the sky ; 
The sun, like a benignant king. 

Smiles from his throne on high, 
While birds, in gushing melody, 

Are ofiering homage up ; 
And sister flowers, beneath his gaze. 

Ope wide each fragile cup : 
Why shut ye then your incense in. 

And hide your loveliness. 
As though you may not share their joy 

Beneath the sun's caress 1 

Now wake ye ! 'tis the sunset hour. 

The day king has gone down — 
Yet still upon the mountain's top 

Is seen his brilliant crown • 
Awake ye ! if its gleaming gems. 

Its bands of glittering gold. 
Its glorious, lifeUke radiance. 

Departing, y e 'd behold. 
The river 's touched with glowing light. 

And rolls a crimson flood. 
While heaven's blush has lent its hues 

Unto the leafy wood ; 
Still are you folded to your dreams 1 

Bright must those visions be. 
If they surpass the gorgeousness 

Of heaven's pageantry ? 

Good night ! the stars are gemming heaven, 

And seem like angels' eyes, 
Resuming now their silent watch 

Within the far-oif sides ; 
They nightly on their burning thrones. 

Like guardian spirits keep 
Familiar vigil o'er the world. 

Wrapt in its solemn sleep ; 
And tenderly they gaze on us. 

Those children of the air. 
While every ray they send to you 

Some message seems to bear, ' 
That stirs you to the inmost core : 

You thrill beneath their beams, 
And start and tremble wildly, like 

Ambition in liis dreams. 

Now, lo ! ye burst your emerald bonds, 

And ope your languid eyes. 
And spread your loveliness before 

Those dwellers of the skies; 
While incense from your grateful hearts 

Like prayer ascends to heaven. 
And kindly dew and starry light 

Are answering blessings given. 
" Ask and ye shall receive," you seem 

To whisper to my heaw., 
And move me in your worshipping 

To take an active part. 
Sweet teachers ! 'tis an hour for prayer. 

When hushed are sounds of mirth, 



And slumber rests his balmy wing 

Upon the weary earth ; 
When all the ties that bind the soul 

To worldliness are riven — 
Then heartfelt prayers, like loosened birds. 

Will wing tlieir way to heaven. 



A STORY OF SUNRISE. 

Whehe the old cathedral towers. 

With its dimly hghted dome. 
Underneath its morning shadow 

Nestles my beloved home ; 
When the summer morn is breaking 

Glorious, with its golden beams. 
Through my open latticed window 

Matin music wildly streams. 
Not the peal of deep-toned organ 

Smites the air with ringing sound — 
Not the voice of singing maiden 

Sighing softer music round ; 
Long ere these have hailed the morning, 

Is the mystic anthem heard. 
Wildly, fervently, outpouring 

From the bosom of a bird. 
Every morn he takes his station 

On the cross which crowns the spire. 
And with heaven-born inspiration. 

Vents in voice his bosom's fire ; 
Every mom when light and shadow. 

Struggling, blend their gold and gray. 
From the cross, midway to heaven. 

Streams his holy melody. 
Like the summons from the turrets 

Of an eastern mosque it seems : 
" Come to prayer, to prayer, ye faithful !" 

Echoes through my morning dreams. 
Heedful of the invitation 

Of the pious messenger, 
Lo ! I join in meek devotion 

With so lone a worshipper. 
And a gushing, glad thanksgiving 

From my inmost heart doth thrill, 
To our Ever Friend in heaven. 

As our blent glad voices trill. 
Then the boy who rests beside me 

Softly opes his starry eyes, 
Tosses back his streaming ringlets, 

Gazes round in sweet surprise. 
He, though sleeping, felt the radiance 

Struggling through the curtained gloom ; 
Heard the wild, harmonious hymning 

Break the stillness of my room : 
These deliciously commingled 

With the rapture of his dreams, 
And the heaven of which I "ve told him 

On his childish vision gleams. 
Guardian seraphs, viewless spirits. 

Brooding o'er the enchanted air. 
Pause, with folded wings, to listen 

To the Uspings of his prayer ; 
Up, to the recording angel, 

When their ward on earth is done. 
They will bear the guileless accents 

Of my infant's orison ! 



ELISE JUSTINE BAYARD. 



Miss Bayard, a daughter of one of the 
few old historical families of New York who 
still preserve fortune and position, has, by a 
few brilliant lyrics published in the maga- 
zines, revived attention to a name which 
figures in the early provincial annals of her 
native state, and which in later times was 
prominent among the commercial notabilities 
of the city of her birth. A lady of leisure, 
fortune, and general accomplishment, is not 
likely to bestow any very severe study upon 
the art of poetry ; but the amateur votary in 
this instance has shown a vigor of thought. 



emotion, and expression, in some of her pro- 
ductions, which gives the highest promise of 
what she may accomplish, should she devote 
her fine intelligence to literature. 

The following poems were first printed 
in the Literary World, and Miss Bayard has 
published a few more in the Knickerbocker 
Magazine and in other miscellanies. Among 
her compositions that have been circulated 
in manuscript are some, of a more ambitious 
character, that would vindicate higher enco- 
miums than will here be adventured upon 
her abilities. 



A FUNERAL CHANT FOE THE 
OLD YEAR. 

'Tis the death night of the solemn Old Year! 
And it calleth from its shroud 
With a hollow voice and loud, 
But serene : 
And it saith, " What have I given. 
That hath brought thee nearer Heaven 1 
Dost thou weep, as one forsaken, 
For the treasures I have taken ] 
Standest thou beside my hearse 
With a blessing or a curse 1 
Is it well with thee, or worse. 
That I have been V 

'T is the death night of the solemn Old Year ! 
The midnight shades that fall — 
They will serve it for a pall. 
In their gloom : 
And the misty vapors crowding 
Are the withered corse enshrouding ; 
And the black clouds looming off in 
The far sky, have plumed the cotfin : 
But the vaults of human souls, 
Where the memory unrolls 
All her tear-besprinkled scrolls, 
Are its tomb ! 

'T is the death night of the solemn Old Year I 
The moon hath gone to weep, 
With a mourning still and deep, 
For her loss : 
The stars dare not assemble 
Through the murky night to tremble ; 
The naked trees are groaning 
With an awful, mystic moaning ; 
Wings sweep upon the air. 
Which a solemn message bear, 



And hosts, whose banners wear 
A crowned cross ! 
'Tis the death night of the solemn Old Year ! 
Who make the funeral train, 
When the queen hath ceased to reign 1 
Who are here 
With the golden crowns that follow, 
All invested with a halo *! 
With a splendor transitory 
Shines the midnight from their glory ; 
And the psean of their song 
Rolls the aisles of space along — 
But the left hearts are less strong. 
For they were dear ! 
'Tis the death night of the solemn Old Year ! 
With a dull and heavy tread. 
Tramping forward with the dead. 
Who come last ? 
Lingering with their faces groundward. 
Though their feet are marching onward. 
They are shrieking — they are calling 
On the rocks in tones appalling : 

But Earth waves them from her view. 
And the God-light dazzles through — 
And they shiver, as spars do, 
Before the blast ! 
'T is the death night of the solemn Old Year ! 
We are parted from our place 
In her motherly embrace. 
And are alone ! 
For the infant and the stranger. 
It is sorrowful to change her : 
She hath cheered the night of mourning 
With a promise of the dawning ; 
She hath shared in our delight 
With a gladness true and bright : 
Oh ! we need her joy to-night — 
But she is gone ! 

357 



358 



ELISE JUSTINE BAYARD. 



ON FINDING THE KEY OF AN OLD 
PIANO. 

Unlock, unlock the shrines of memory, 
And bid her many keys their voices send 

Up in the silent hour unto me. 
Speak ! that the tones of other years may lend 

Their vanished harmonies and lost romance 

To days immersed in gloom and dissonance. 

Thou, who the while unconscious played thy part, 
And called fair music from her silent cell 

To echo murmurs from the gushing heart. 
Come ! wake once more the departed spell : 

I fain would hear of things and thoughts again, 

Which mingled often with the stealing strain. 

Hark ! it comes creeping on : it is an air 
Full of strange wailing — mournfully profound ; 

Some music-spirit moaning in despair, 
Prisoned in that sweet barrier of sound : 

And yet, raethinks " might I a captive be. 

If thus environed in captivity !" 

And shadowy forms around the instrument 
Come closely pressing, whispering low words 

That keep time with the music, redolent 
Of deep vibrations in the hidden chords 

That round the heart their hurried measure keep. 

And sway its pulses with resistless sweep. 

Voice of the voiceless ! Graves give up their dead, 
And at thy word departed echoes ring, 

Familiar carols from the lips that fled 
Long weary years ago, with fatal wing. 

Unto the silent regions of the tomb, 

And died away there in its hollow gloom. 

Hush ! other instruments are creeping in 
To perfect the concordance of the whole. 

And well remembered voices now begin 
To bear on wings invisible my soul. 

My own ! amongst them I can hear my own — 

Alas ! 'tis almost a forgotten tone ! 

Was it eve dark'ning o'er the pleasant room. 
When the soft breezes of the summer night 

Breathed through its atmosphere a faint perfume, 
Or when the autumn's crimson fire-light 

Glowed upon every brow — thou still wert there, 

Wreck of departed days, with many an air. 

Joyous or sorrowful — profound or wild — 
Swiftly thy sweeping chords gave out their tones. 

Light as the laughter of a sinless child™ — 
Deep as the anguish told in captive moans — 

Smooth as the (low of rivers to the sea — 

Irregular as dark insanity. 

There have been hands that are beneath the mould, 
(I seem to feel their chillness in thy touch) — 

Eyes, wept the while they moved, that now are cold 
As this impassive metal : yet are such 

The things that bind us nearest, move us most. 

And leave a hopeless voice when they are lost. 

Now, stranger hands across those keys will run. 
And other walls for other groups surround, 

And stranger eyes look lovingly upon 
The unconscious mover of the realm of sound ; 



That realm, once sacred, my sweet home, to thee, 
And ever sacred to my memory. 

But thou, impassive thing, thus severed wide 
From thy sole wealth in those harmonious waves. 

Another empire be thine own beside : 
Be thou the pass-key to the spirit caves, 

Thou the deliverer of their captive throng. 

The portal spirit of the gatce of song. 



SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. 

That pale and shadowy beauty, 

It haunts my vision now : 
The genius radiating 

From the dazzhng marble brow — 
The high and saintly fervor. 

The meek and childlike faith, 
The trusting glance, which sayeth 

More than mortal accent saith : 
They haunt me when the night-winds swell, 
And daylight can not break their spell. 

I see the blue eye shining 

Through the lashes as they fall. 
An inward glory speaking 

To the inward life of all — 
A ray that was illumined 

At the far celestial light. 
And burns through mist and shadow, 

A beacon ever bright. 
Serene, seraphic, and sublime, 
And changeless with the flight of time. 

A faint, transparent rose-Ught 

Is trembling on the cheek. 
And lingering on the pale lip — 
A glow that seems to speak : 
It wavers like the taper 

Dim lit at forest shrine, 
When night-winds whisper to it : 
It breathes of the Divine, 
With its ethereal mystery, 
Too iragile of the earth to be. 

Her grace is as a shadow — 

As undefinable ; 
Wedded to every motion thus, 

And rarely beautiful. 
Untaught, and all unconscious. 

It hath a voice to me 
Which eloquently speaketh 

Of inward harmony : 
Of Soul and Sense together swayed — 
To the First Soul an offering made. 

That pale and shadowy beauty, 

It seemed an inward thing — - 
A spiritual vision — 

A chaste imagining : 
Not all in form or feature 

The fairy phantom dwelt. 
But, like the air of heaven. 

Was 3^et less seen than felt — 
A presence the true heart to move 
To praise, and prayer, and holy love. 



ELISE JUSTINE BAYARD. 



359 



THE SEA AND THE SOVEREIGN. 

It is said tliat after the death ofPiiace William, eldest son of Henry T., 
kin^ of England, who was wrecked oil' the coast of Normaady, the 
monarch was never seen to smile more. 

Open, ye ruthless waves! 
Open the mouths of your uncounted graves, 

To swallow up a king ! 

It is no common thing : 
A kingdom in one man incarnated 
Goes down to hold his court among your dead ! 

Jewels lie fathoms down 
To glisten, set in crystal, on his crown ; 

A coral carcanet 

An insect realm may set 
(A bauble that a king were proud to wear) 
Upon his marble throat, all stiff and bare. 

Build him an amber throne. 
And deck it well with many a burning stone ; 

And let his footstool be 

The lapis lazuli ; 
And hang his hall with stalactites, whose sheen 
May make a daylight in the submarine. 

An argosy of pearls 

May glisten in his waving yellow curls : 
I ween no wealthier prince 
Hath swayed a kingdom, since 

The silver was as dust in Judah's street, 

Trodden by Solomon's imperial feet. 

Out bursts the ancient Sea 
With bitter merriment in mockery : 

" Take thou," she saith, " the gem 

To deck thy diadem — 
The hidden riches of my caves be thine ; 
I have thy treasure — pay thyself in mine ! 

" The pomp is bootless now, 
A gemmed tiara for that fleshless brow ! 

There is no need of thrones 

For those enamelled bones; 
Of daylight for those hollow, sightless eyes ! 
I rob not : take thou booty for my prize." 

There is a broken groan, 
A wail of sorrow from a kingly throne ; 

There is a human heart 

Of which he was a part 
Whom thou hast swallowed, thou devouring Sea ! 
A father's heart and cry of agony ! 

For him thy gifts are brought — 
For him thine ores with cunning skill are vrrought. 

He only cries aloud : 

" I crave but for a shroud ! 
Oh Ocean, pitiless, relentless one ! 
Thy riches keep : give back, give back my son ! 

" Could I but see my child 

In death, my bitter anguish were more mild ; 

His buried form unseen 

Stands day and me between — 

My vision blinds, my soul, my reason warps ; 

Ocean ! I would but once behold his corpse !" 

Day laughs out on the sky 
With the glad brightness of her waking eye ; 
In the all-blessed Spring 
Earth is a happy thing ; 



Yea, on her face the false and murderous Sea 
Wears smiles of peace : but never smileth he ! 

The altar shows the bride 
Full of meek gladness by her lover's side ; 

And childhood's sweet caress 

Betokens happiness ; 
Nay, weary age in infant purity 
Finds cause for smiles: but never smileth he! 

Folly forgets her chime, 
Awed by that sorrow reverend and sublime ; 

Forgets Joy to be glad ; 

Forgets Grief to be sad ; 
Smiles tell him, " Gone !" and at his coming flee. 
What lip dare smile — for never smileth he ! 

The dead man all the while 
Lies with the horrid semblance of a smile 

Parting his hollow skull ; 

And glad and beautiful 
His angel in a new felicity 
Smiles from the skies : but never smileth he ! 



WORSHIP. 

LoTE ! for the true heart's sacred love is its Crea- 
tor's will ! 

His glorious law of sympathy it labors to 
fulfil: 

So work out in its smaller sphere, with faithful dili- 
gence, 

The mighty, universal schemes of his omnipo- 
tence. 

Love I if ye can not learn to love your brother whom 
ye see. 

How shall ye grow in faith toward the unseen 
Deity? 

A true heart's love is worship. Indirectly it is 
praise, 

And prayer: for piety is not to cultivate one 
phase 

Of this anomalous being, with its wide capa- 
city — 

Its vast illimitable range of power and fan- 
tasy: 

The length, the breadth, the height, the depth, of 
this which we call man, 

God hath made this to worship him, as nothing 
narrow can : 

Universality of gifts upon one creature shed. 

And to the Benefactor's praise shall all save one 
be dead 1 

Mind, soul, heart, strength, all else of good, of rich 
and beautiful. 

Lavished upon the human frame, yet every sense 
be dull 

Save one ! one only live to him of all this glorious 
tower 1 — 

Forbid it, Honor, Truth ! No ! work is piety of 
power ; ,' 

Genius is piety of mind ; LiSve piety of heart ; 

Religion piety of soul. It/vill not serve to part 

These elements of worship, and then blasphemous- 
ly give 

The mutilated corpse to Him through whom the 
whole must live. 



LUCY LARCOM. 



Miss Larcom is a native of Massachusetts, 
and was for several j'ears employed in one 
of the factories at Lowell. She has been a 
frequent contributor to the Lowell Offering, 
for the early volumes of which she wrote a 
series of parables that attracted much atten- 
tion. She is now a teacher in Illinois, but 
continues to write for this interesting- peri- 
odical, which illustrates so beautifully the 
character, taste, and abilities, of the New 
England operatives. Mr. Whittier, in refer- 
ring to some of her poems, observes : " That 
they were written by a j'oung woman whose 
life has been no long liolyday of leisure, but 



one of toil and privation, does not indeed en- 
hance their intrinsic merit, but it lends them 
an interest in the eyes of those who, like our- 
selves, long to see the cords of caste broken, 
and the poor niceties of aristocratic exclu- 
siveness, irrational and unchristian every- 
where, but in addition ridiculous in a coun- 
try like ours, vanish before the true nobility 
of mind — the natural graces of a good heart 
and a useful life — the self-sustained dignity 
of a spirit superior to the folly of accounting 
labor degradation, and usefulness a calamity, 
and which can not count as common and un- 
clean the duties which God has sanctified." 



ELISHA AND THE ANGELS. 

The cheerful sunbeams hastened up the east, 
Chasing the gray mists to the mountain-tops, 
And morning burst upon Gilboa's hills. 
The playful kids were leaping o'er the crags ; 
The little happy birds, that all night long 
In the dry clefts had found a nestling-place. 
Were flying sunward, singing hymns of praise ; 
And from the green, awakening vales arose 
The sound of bleating herds and lowing kine. 
Elisha's servant, issuing early forth 
To the day's needful toil, with vigorous step 
Trod a worn path that wound among the rocks. 
He paused to gaze upon the enlivening scene, 
And hear the harmony of Nature's joy. 
And bless the God of morning. 

Suddenly 
A flash of light unusual struck his eye : , 
Half doubting, he beheld a line of spears 
And burnished shields, that from a neighboring hill 
In mocking splendor threw the sunlight back ; 
And saw, stretched far around, a circle wide 
Of rich war-chariots, while horsemen armed 
Crowded each mountain-pass and deep defile. 
Too well he knew the terrible array — 
The Assyrian host, his master's foes and his ! 
Fear, like an inward demon, blanched his cheek. 
Stared from his eye, and shook his nerveless limbs. 
Poor, feeble man ! why, e'en the little birds. 
That sung so blithely o'er the frightful chasms, 
Had taught him stronger confidence than this. 
Yet, weak as he, how often we forget 
That in our great All-seeing Father's sight 
We are worth more than sparrows ! 

Back he turned 
Unto the prophet's dwelling, nor did rest 



Till, faint with terror, at his feet he fell. 
The man of God upon his threshold stood, 
His forehead bared unto the streaming Hght, 
And inspiration beaming from his eye. 
Doth he not tremble 1 Nay ; the cedar-tree. 
That stands in unmoved grandeur at his side, 
Is not more firm than he. Calmly he scans 
The panoply of war before him spread, 
As 'twere a flock reposing in the shade. 
He hears his prostrate servant's stifled cry — 
"Alas, my master! how shall we escape?" 
How foolish must such fright have seemed to him 
Whose eyes the Lord had opened ! Should he deign 
To speak a soothing word, and lull his fears 7 
If man might e'er be proud, 'twas surely he, 
Who had been singled out from common men 
To be an oracle unto his kind. 
His was the dignity sublime of one 
Who feels divinity within him burn, [God. 

And thinks the thoughts and speaks the words of 
But haughtiness belongs to narrow souls, 
And wisdom is too godlike to be proud. 
Elisha owned himself of kindred dust 
With that frail trembler. Mildly he replied : 
" Fear thou no more ; for lo I a mightier force 
Than all yon heathen host, is on our side." — 
"But where 1" the servant's doubtful glance in- 
quires. 
The prophet answered not, but clasped his hands. 
Looked up to heaven, and prayed in tones subdued, 
" Lord, open thou his eyes, that he may see I" 

How changed the scene ! these rocks, that lately 
Opaque and dull beneath the azure sky, [lay 

Are robed in glory that outshines the sun. 
Embattled legions gird the prophet round 
With blazoned banners and heaven-tempered spears, 
Horses and chariots, in whose fiery sheen 
360 



LUCy LARCOM. 



361 



The pomp of Syria's army but appears 
Like a dim candle in the noonday blaze : 
The mount is full of angels ! 

Blest were we, 
When every earthly prospect is shut in, 
And all our mortal helpers disappear, 
If, with Faith's eye undimmed and opened wide. 
We might behold the blessed angel-troop 
Which God, our God, has promised shall encamp 
Round those who fear his name. Our sickl}' doubts, 
That flit like foul night-ravens o'er our souls. 
Would hush their screams and fly before the dawn ; 
And we should learn to fear no evil thing, 
And in Adversity's grim gaze could smile. 

Sometimes, when wandering in a labyrinth 
Whence we can find no clue, and all is dark. 
We wonder why our spirits do not die. 
Perhaps in secret bowed, some holy soul 
Utters for us the prophet's kind request ; 
And we, though dimly, are allowed to see 
The prints of angels' feet along the road ; 
And our hearts, beating lightly, follow on 
After the steps that sound before, albeit 
Uncertain whose they are, though we are sure 
Of a safe outlet from the tangled way. 

Father of Spirits I Savior of our souls ! 
Let heavenly guides go with us down life's way ; 
And when we come unto that river's brink 
Upon whose other bank in light and love 
We shall be as the angels — then we know 
Thou wilt be near us, though this earthborn clay. 
Shrinking in mortal terror from the plunge 
Which shall release its tenant unto bliss. 
May with foreboding clouds obscure our faith 
And hide thy presence. Oh ! hear now one prayer 
Which then our hearts may be too faint to breathe : 
" Lord, open thou our eyes, that we may see !" 



THE BURNING PRAIRIE. 

Ev33:fiNe throws her dusky mantle 

O'er the boundless, grassy sea ; 
Here and there, like ships at anchor. 

In the moonlight stands a tree ; 
While the stars that nightly travel 

O'er the highway of the skies. 
Bend upon earth's weary pilgrims 

Still and clear their earnest eyes. 

Now the constellations brighten : 

Like a stern and warlike lord. 
Bright Orion leads the pageant — ■ 

He of gleaming belt and sword. 
In his wake glide forth the Pleiads ; 

By the pole-star leaps the Bear ; 
Down the star-paved road in silence 

Rides the Lady in her Chair ! 



But behold ! an earthly glimmer 

Rises 'neath the starry beam ; 
Far along the prairie's border 

How the ruddy fringes stream ! 
See the red flames darting forward. 

Sparkling through the withered grass, 
While the lurid smoke uprolling 

Stains the azure as they pass. 

Who the distant blaze enkindled 1 

Can it be some savage clan 
Flinging oat the winged wildfire 

To affright the pale-faced man 7 
Nay : for Mississippi's water 

Speeds no sachem's light canoe, 
And beside the dark Missouri 

Are the Indians' wigwams few. 

'T is the farmer's mighty besom : 

Thus he sweeps the fertile plain — 
Lays it bare unto the baptism 

Of the softening vernal rain. 
Where the billowy flame is rolling, 

Shall a warmer sun behold 
Verdant pastures richly laden, 

Harvests tinged with wavy gold. 

Brighter visions burst upon me ; 

For the dear enchantress, Hope, 
Bids me look into the future 

Through her magic telescope. 
Lo ! a glorious blaze ascending — 

Purer, loftier doth it grow. 
Every ridge and swell revealing. 

Softened in the mellow glow. 

'T is the central fire of Freedom, 
Lighted on the nation's heart : 
Cynosure of happy millions, 

Fadeless peace its rays impart ; 
Truth and Love, their white wings waving. 
Sit and fan it all day long, 
And to meet its warmth and brightness 
Ever pours a grateful throng. 

Let it blaze ! The Pilgrim's watch-fiire, 
Kindled first on Plymouth rock. 

Must not die upon the prairies. 
Nor with fitful flickerings mock. 

Every lowly cabin window 
• Shall reflect its steady Ught, 

And beyond the red horizon 

It shall make the country bright. 

Then the gazers of the nations. 

And the watchers of the skies. 
Looking through the coming ages 

Shall behold, with joyful eyes, 
In the flery track of Freedom 

Fall the mild baptismal rain. 
And the ashes of old Evil 

Feed the Future's golden grain. 



"EDITH MAY." 



" Edith Mat" is a name bestowed, I be- 
lieve, by Mr. N. P. Willis, upun one of the 
most brilliant of our youuger poets. She is 
a native and until recently was a resident of 
Philadelphia ; but for three or four years her 
home has been in " the most secluded part 
of Pennsylvania, on the borders of a small 
lake, in one of that state's most romantic 
neighborhoods." The character of her ge- 
nius will be seen in her Count Julio, which 
was written when she was but seventeen 
years of as^e ; and the critical reader will 
feel as much hope as pleasure as he sees in 
its splendid blossoming promise of future 
fruits with which few of the productions of 
female genius can be compared. 



Her dramatic power, observation of life, 
imagination, fancy, and the easy and natural 
flow of her verse, which is nowhere marred 
by any blemish of imperfect taste, entitle this 
very youthful poet to a place in the common 
estimation inferior to none occupied by wri- 
ters of her years. And there are scattered 
through her poems gleams of an intelligence 
which they do not fully disclose, and felici- 
ties of expression betraying a latent power 
greater than is exerted, so that we are not 
authorized to receive what she has accom- 
plished, brilliant as it is, as a demonstration 
of the entire character and force of her fac- 
ulties. 



COUNT JULIO. 

Mm piles beneath whose fretted cornices 
Echo still babbles of a glorious past, 
Dwelt Julio, the miser. Nobly born. 
Reared amid palaces, and trained from youth 
To the gay vices of a liberal age, 
How came it now, that year on year sped on 
To leave the proud count in his silent halls, 
Hoarding the gold once lavished 1 

Young and fair, 
The haughtiest noble of the Roman court. 
The stateliest of the highborn throng that graced 
Its princely revels, he had left the feast. 
Bidding the bright wine that he quaffed in parting, 
Be to him thence accursed. Nevermore 
Checked he his courser by the Tiber's bank, 
Nor struck the sweet chords of his lute, nor <rod 
Glad measures with the bright-lipped Roman dames; 
And from the lintels of his banquet-hall 
The spider balanced on its gossamer thread. 
Dust heaped the silken couches, and where swept 
Golden-fvingcd curtains to the chequered floor. 
The rat gnawed silently, and gray moths fed 
On the rich produce of the Asian loom. 
Men shunned his threshold, and his palace doors 
Creaked on their rusty hinges. Prince and peasant 
Ahke turned coldly at his coming step ; 
The very beggar, that at noontide lay 
Basking 'neath sunlight in the quiet street. 
Stretched not his hand forth as the miser passed. 

He cared not for their scorn. Man's breath to him 
Was like the wind that sweeps the scathed oak 
And finds no leaf to flutter I Fate had left 
Only two things on earth for him to love — 
The gold he heaped, and the fair, motherless child, 



Who by his side grew up to womanhood : 
And these he worshipped, loathing all things else. 
His couch was ruder than a cloistered monk's — 
Bianca's head was pillowed upon down ; 
His fare was scanty and his raiment coarse, 
But she was clad like princes, and her board 
Heaped with the costliest viands. From the world 
He shrank abhorrent, but Bianca shone 
Proudest and fairest in a brilliant court. 
Her youth had been most lonely. By his side 
To watch the piling of the golden heaps 
He told so greedily ; to play alone 
In gardens where no hand had put aside 
The flowers and weeds, that in one tangled woof 
Hung o'er the fountain's dusty bed, and crept 
Round the tall porticoes ; perchance to sit 
Hour after hour all silent at his feet, 
Twining her small arms and her baby throat 
With the rare treasures that his caskets held — 
Rubies, and pearls, and flashing carcanets. 
Her costly playthings — all companionless. 
These were her childish pastimes. Years wore on, 
Till the close dawn of perfect womanhood 
Flushed in her cheek and brightened in her eye — 
And the girl learned to know how fair the face 
Those dingy walls had cloistered fi-om the sun ; 
To bear her head more proudly, and to step, 
If not so lightly, with a graceller tread. 
Love-songs were framed for her ; her midnight rest 
Was broken by the sound of silver lutes, 
And the young gallants caracoled their steeds 
Gayly at eve beneath her balcony. 

She went forth to the world, and careless lips 
Told her the shame that was her heritage, 
And scornful fingers pointed as she passed 
To the rare jewels and the broidered robes 
3S2 



'EDITH MAY." 



363 



That decked the miser's daughter ; envious tongues 
Gilded anew the half-forgotten tale, 
And it became the marvel of all Rome : 
Thus, till the diadem of gems and gold 
Burned on her white brow like a circling flame, 
And she went writhing home, to weep — to loathe 
The sordid parent who had brought this blight 
Upon the joyous promise of her youth ! 

It was the still noon of a summer night. 
When the young countess from her father's roof 
Fled — with a noble of the Roman court. 
Morn came, and through the empty corridors. 
The balconies, the gardens, the wide' halls. 
In vain they sought her. Noon passed by, and then 
The truth was guessed, not spoken ! Silently 
Count Julio trod the marble staircases. 
And pausing by the door that once was hers, 
Stood a brief moment, and then, pressing on, 
Stepped through the quiet chamber. All was still, 
Bearing no traces of her recent flight. 
Here lay a slipper, here a silken robe, 
And here a lute thrown down, with a white glove 
Flung carelessly beside it. Still the air 
Breathed of the delicate perfumes she had loved. 

He glanced but once around the empty room. 
Then from the mirrored and silk-draperied walls 
Cast his eye downward o'er his shrunken form. 
His meagre garments. Few the words he spake, 
And muttered low : but in them came a curse, 
So blasphemous, so hideous in its depth 
Of impotent rage, that they who at his side 
Yet stood in lingering pity, with blanched lips 
Turned to the threshold, and crept shuddering forth. 

He breathed his sorrow to no human ear, 
But left it channelled in his heart, to breed 
Corruption there. None knew how wearily 
The hours passed on beneath those lonely walls ; 
None saw him, when by midnight still a watcher 
He brooded o'er his anguish, pale and faint, 
Starting and trembUng, as inconstantly 
The night winds swayed the curtains to and fro. 
Fancying the rustle of her silken robe. 
Her footfall on the staircase ! Time sped on 
To strike the dulled bloom from his cheek, and sere 
The soul that once had queened it on his brow. 
A bent and wan old man, upon whose breast 
Hung the neglected masses of his beard — 
With tremulous hands, habitually clinched 
Till the sharp nails wore furrows in the palms — 
Thus stole he forth at even, and with eyes 
Lost in the golden future of his dreams, [ing. 
Passed through the busy crowds unmarked, unheed- 

Once had he looked upon Bianca's face — 
Once had she knelt before him, with her child 
Gasping upon her breast, and prayed for succor. 
The unwept victim of a drunken brawl. 
Her lord had fallen, and the palace walls 
That owned her mistress were deserted now. 
She had braved fear and hunger, fill her babe 
Wailed dying on her bosom, and so urged — 
Pride, shame, forgotten in a mother's love — 
Clung to his knees for pardon. But in vain : 
He cursed her as she knelt — bade her go forth. 
And niid the loathsome suppliants that unveil 
Disease and suffering to the eye of wealth, 



Bare, too, her anguish to the glance of Pity ; 
Then, as she lingered, spurned her from his feet 
With words that chilled her agony to dread. 
And drove her thence in horror ! 

From that day 
His very blood seemed charged with bitterness. 
Miser and usurer both, upon the wrecks 
Of others' happiness he built his own ; 
His name became accursed in the land. 
And with his withering soul his body grew 
Scarce human in its ghastly hideousness. 

The bulb enshrouds the lily ; and within 
The most unsightly form may folded lie 
The white wings of an angel. But in him 
Seemed all the sweet humanities of life 
Coldly encharnelled ; and no hand di%'ine 
Rolled from his breast the weary weight of sin, 
To bid them go forth unto suffering man 
Like gracious ministers. 

And she, alas ! 
Whom he had madly dri*en forth to ruin — 
Earth hath no words to tell how dark the change 
That clothed her fallen spirit. O'er the waste 
Of want and horror that engulfed her fortunes, 
She had sent forth the while dove. Purity, 
And it returned no more. The Roman dames 
Took not her name upon their scornful lips. 
Her form became a model for the artist ; 
And her rare face went down to future ages, 
Limned on his canvass. Ye may mark it yet, 
In the long galleries of the Vatican, 
Varied but still the same : now robed in pride. 
As monarchs in their garbs of Syrian purple ; 
Now with a Magdalen's blue mantle drawn 
Over the bending forehead. As the marble 
Sleeps in unsullied whiteness on the tomb. 
Taking no taint from the foul thing it covers. 
Her beauty bore no blight from guilt, but lived 
A monument that made her name immortal. 

Night had uprisen, clothed with storms and gloom; 
No taper lit the solitary hall. 
And to and fro, with feeble steps, its lord [then, 
Paced through the darkness. Midnight came, and 
Pausing beside the groaning door, that weighed 
Its rusty hinge. Count Julio, crouching, peered 
Into the gloom without ; for stealthy feet. 
Whose echo struck upon his wary ear. 
Had passed the lower halls, and slowly now 
Trod the great staircase. 

'T was no robber's step : 
Faint, slow, and halting, ever and anon. 
As though in weariness. His sharpened sense 
Caught, mid the fitful pauses of the wind. 
The headlong dashing of the driven rain, 
A sound of painful breathing — nay, of sobs — 
Bursting, and then as suddenly suppressed. 

Shuddering he stood ; and as the storm's red bolt 
Leaped through the windows, lighting as it passed, 
A dusky shape, that cowered at the flash. 
He shrank within the chamber, and once more 
Listened in silence. 

Nearer came the sound : 
A tall form crossed the threshold, and threw back 
What seemed a heavy mantle. Then agaui 
Glanced the pale lightning, and Count Julio knew, 



364 



"EDITH MAY." 



By the long hair that swept her garments' hem, 
Bianca ! — 

They who through that night of fear 
Kept watch with storm and terror till the dawn, 
Bore its dark memories even to the tomb : 
For shrieks and cries seemed mingled with the wind; 
And voices, as of warring fiends, prevailed 
O'er its low mutterings. Morn awoke at last; 
And with its earliest gleam Count Julio crept 
Out through his palace gardens. Swollen drops 
Hung from the curved roofs of the porticoes; 
His footsteps dashed them from the earth-bowed 
And from the tangles of the matted grass ; [leaves, 
But over-head the day broke gloriously. 

Where once a fountain to the sunlight leaped, 
A marble naiad, by its weedy bed, 
Stood on her pedestal. With hand outstretched 
She grasped a hollowed shell, now brimming o'er; 
While a green vine that round her arm had crept. 
Rose, serpent-like, and in the chalice dipped 
Its curling tendrils. Thither turned his eye 
Just as the red uprising of the morn 
Flushed the pale statue, and crept brightening down. 
Even to its very base. Mantled and prone, 
A heap that scarcely seemed a human form. 
Crouched in the shadow, and with tottering feet 
The old man hurried onward. Motionless, 
It stirred not at his footsteps : nearer stdl — [hands 
He marked a white face, upward turned, clinched 
Locked in the hair that swept its ghastly brow ! 
Shading his weak eyes from the blinding sun. 
Cowering in trembling horror to the earth. 
Still on he crept ; then bending softly down. 
Spake in a smothered voice — " Hist, hist, Bianca !" 

Oh, mockery ! Her ear that he had filled 
With curses, woke not to the tones of love ; [not 
The breast that he had spurned from him, heaved 
At his wild anguish. Death had done its work : 
The tempest had been merciless as the parent 
That drove her forth to meet it; and the flash 
Of its red eye more withering than his scorn ! 
Shunned, both in penitence and guilt; forsaken 
By those who only prized her for the beauty 
Time andperchance remorse had touch'd with blight; 
Drenched with the rain ; all breathless with the storm; 
Homeless and hopeless — she had crept to him 
Once more a suppliant ; spurned rudely forth. 
Here had lain down despairing, and so perished. 



STORM AT TWILIGHT. 

The roar of a chafed lion, in his lair 
Begirt by levelled spears. A sudden flash. 
Intense, yet wavering, like a beast's fierce eye 
Searching the darkness. The wild bay of winds 
Sweeps the burnt plains of heaven, and from afar 
Linked clouds are riding up like eager horsemen. 
Javelin in hand. From the north wings of twilight 
There falls unwonted shadow, and strange gloom 
Cloisters the unwilling stars. The sky is roofed 
With tempest, and the moon's scant rays fall through 
Like Ught let dimly through the fissured rock 
Vaulting a cavern. To the horizon 
The green sea of the forest hath rolled back 
Its levelled billows, and where mastlike trees 



Sway to its bosom, here and there a vine, [aloft 
Braced to some pine's bare shaft, clings — rocked 
Like a bold mariner. There is no bough 
But lifteth its appealing arm to Heaven. 
The scudding grass is shivering as it flies. 
And herbs and flowers crouch to their mother earth 
Like frightened children. 'Tis more terrible 
When the hoar thunder speaks, and the fleet wind 
Stops, like a steed that knows his rider's voice — 
For oh ! the rush that follows is the calm 
Of a despairing heart ; and as a maniac 
Loses his grief in raving, the mad storm. 
Weeping hot tears, awakens with a sob 
From its blank desolation, and shrieks on ! 



JULIETTE. 

Whebe the rough crags lift, and the sea mews call, 
Yet stands Earl Hubert's castle tall : 
Close at the base of its western wall 

The chafed waves stand at bay ; 
And the May-rose twined in its banquet hall 

Dips to the circUng spray. 
For the May-rose springs, and the ivy clings. 

And the wallflower flaunts in the ruined bower, 
And the sea-bird foldeth her weary wings 

Up in the stone-gray tower. 
Scaling an arch of the postern rude, 

A wild vine dips to the ocean's flow ; 
Deep in the niches the blind owls brood. 

And the fringing moss hangs low 
Where stout Earl Hubert's banner stood 

Five hundred years ago ! 
Out from the castle's western wall 
Jutteth a tower round and tall, 
And leading up to the parapet 

By a winding turret-stair : 
Over the sea there looketh yet 

A chamber small and square, 
Where the faint daylight comes in alone 
Through a narrow slit in the solid stone ; 

And here, old records say. 
Earl Hubert bore his wayward child 

From courts and gallants gay — 
That, guarded by the billows wild. 
And cloistered from her lover's arms. 
Here might she mourn her wasted charms, 

Here weep her youth away. 
" One — two !" said the sentinel. 

Pacing his rounds by the eastern tower. 
Up in the turret a solemn knell 

Tolled for the parting hour ; 
Over the ocean its echo fell — 
" One ! two !" — like a silver bell 

Chiming afar in the sea-nymph's bower. 
Shrill and loud was the sea-bird's cry. 
The watch-dog bayed as the raoon rose high. 

The great waves swelled below ; 
And the measured plash of a dipping oar 
Broke softly through their constant roar. 

And paused beneath the shade 
Flung westward by that turret hoar 

Where slept the prisoned maid. 
The sentinel paced to and fro 



d 



"EDITH MAY." 



365 



Under the castle parapet, 
But, in her chamber, Juliette 
Heard not the tramp of his clanging foot, 

Nor the watchdog baying near — 
Only the sound of a low toned lute 

Stole to her dreaming ear. 

The moon rode up as the night wore on, 

Looking down with a blinding glare 
Into that chamber still and lone. 
Touching the rough-hewn cross of stone 

And the prayer-beads glittering there — 
The loosened waves of the sleeper's hair. 
And the curve of her shoulder, white and bare ! 

She dreamed I she dreamed ! that dreary keep 

Melted away in the calm moonbeams ; 
The deep bell's call and the wave's hoarse sweep 
Changed for the lull of a forest deep, 

And the pleasant voice of streams. 
She seemed to sit by a mossy stone'. 
To watch the blood-red sun go down 
And hang on the verge of the horizon 

Like a ruby set in a golden ring ; 

To hear the wild birds sing 
Up in the larch-boughs, loud and sweet, 
Over a surf where the soft waves beat 
With a sound like a naiad's dancing feet. 
For here and there on its winding way 

Down by dingle and shady nook, 
Under the white thorn's dropping spray 

Glittered the thread of a slender brook ; 
And scarce a roebuck's leap beyond. 
Close at the brink of its grassy bound. 
She heard her lover's chiding hound. 

His bugle's merry play. 
Oh ! it was sweet again to be 

Under the free blue sides ! 
She turned on her pillow restlessly. 

And the tears to her sleeping eyes 
Came welling up as the full drops start 
With Spring's first smile from a fountain's heart. 

Up rose the maid in her dreamy rest. 
And flung a robe o'er her shoulders bare, 
And gathered the threads of her floating hair, 
Ere with a foot on the turret stair 
She paused, then onward pressed, 
As the tones of a soft lute broke again 
Through the deeper chords of the voicefiil main. 
Steep and rude was the perilous way ; 
Through loopholes square and small 
The night looked into the turret gray. 

And over the massive wall 
In blocks of light the moonbeams lay ; 
But the changeful ghosts of the showering spray 
And the mirrored play of the waters dim 
Rippled and glanced on the ceiling grim. 

The moon looked into her sleeping eyes. 

The night wind stirred her hair, 
And wandering hlindly, Juliette, 
Close on the verge of the parapet. 

Stood without in the open air. 
Under the blue arch of the skies. 

Save for the pacing sentinel. 

Save for the ocean's constant swell, 
There seemed astir no earthly thing. 



Below, the great waves rose and fell. 
Scaling ever their craggy bound. 

But scarce a zephyr's dipping wing 
Broke the silver crust of the sea beyond : 

And in her lifelike dream 
The maiden now had wandered on 

To the brink of the slender stream ; 
Then pausing, stayed her eager foot. 
For with the brook's sweet monotone 
Mingled the soft voice of a lute ; 
And, where the levelled moonbeams played 
Over the lap of a turfy glade, 
A hound lay sleeping in the shade. 
Rocked by the Ught waves to and fro. 

Scarcely an arrow's flight from shore. 
Her lover in his bark below 

Paused, resting on the oar. 
Watching the foam-wreaths bead and fall 
Like shattered stars from the castle wall. 
And higher yet he raised his eyes — 

Jesu ! he started with affright ! 
For painted on the dusky skies 

Seemed hovering in the tremulous light 

A figure small and angel white ! 
Against the last lay far and dim. 

Touched by the moon's uncertain ray, 
The airy form of the turret grim. 
Doubtful he gazed a moment's space. 
Then rowed toward the castle's base, 

But checked his oar midway, 
And gazing up at the parapet. 
Shouted the one word, " Juliette !" 
Lute, baying hound, and restless deep. 

Each gave the clue bewildered Thought 
Had followed through the maze of sleep, 

And by her lulled ear faintly caught 

Her lover's voice its echo wrought. 
She heard him call, she saw him stand. 
With smiling lip and beckoning hand ; 
And closer pressed, and dreaming yet. 

From the green herder of the stream — 
From the o'erhanging parapet 

Sprang forward with a scream ! 
Then once again the deep bell tolled 
Up in the turret gray and old. 
And, mingled with its lingering knell. 

The echoed cry, half won, half lost, 
Startled the weary sentinel, 

Now slumbering at his post : 
Yet, wakened from his dreamful rest, 

He deemed the sound some wandering ghost 

Haunting the cave^ of Sleep, 
For like a bird upon its nest 

The hushed air brooded o'er the deep ; 
And to his drowsy ear there crept 

Only the voice of the choral waves — 
Only the drip of the spray that wept. 
And the ripples that sang through the weedy caves : 
Nor marked he, ere again he slept. 
The mufiied stroke of a hasty oar, 
A steed's quick tramp along the shore. 
When morning came, a shallop's keel 

Grated the edge of the pebbly strand — 
A maid's small foot and a knight's armed heel 

Lay traced upon the sand ! 



366 



'EDITH MAY." 



SUMMER. 

The early Spring hath gone : I see her stand 
Afar off, on the hills — white clouds, lilce doves, 
Yoked by the south wind to her opal car, 
And at her feet a lion and a lamb 
Couched side by side. Irresolute Spring hath gone, 
And Summer comes, like Psyche, zephyr-borne 
To her sweet land of pleasures. 

She is here ! 
Amid the distant vales she tarried long ; 
But she hath come, oh, joy ! for I have heard 
Her many chorded harp the livelong day 
Sounding from plains and meadows, where of late 
Rattled the hail's sharp arrows, and where came 
The wild north wind, careering like a steed 
Unconscious of the rein. She hath gone forth 
Into the forest, and its poised leaves 
Are platformed for the Zephyr's dancing feet. 
Under its green pavilions she hath reared 
Most beautiful things. The Spring's pale orphans lie 
Sheltered upon her breast ; the bird's loved song 
At morn outsoars his pinion, and when waves 
Put on Night's silver harness, the still air 
Is musical with soft tones. She hath baptized 
Earth with her joyful weeping ; she hath blessed 
All that do rest beneath the wing of Heaven, 
And all that hail its smile. Her ministry 
Is typical of love ; she hath disdained 
No gentle office, but doth bend to twine 
The grape's light tendrils, and to pluck apart 
The heart-leaves of the rose. She doth not pass 
Unmindful the bruised vine, nor scorn to lift 
The trodden weed ; and when her lowher children 
Faint by the wayside, like worn passengers. 
She is a gentle mother, all night long 
Bathing their pale brows with her healing dews ; 
The hours are spendthrifts of her wealth ; the days 
Are dowered with her beauty. 

Priestess ! queen ! 
Amid the ruined temples of the wood 
She hath rebuilt her altars, and called back 
The scattered choristers, and over aisles 
Where the slant sunshine, like a curious stranger, 
Glided through arches and bare chairs, hath spread 
A roof magnificent. She hath awaked 
Her oracle, that, dumb and paralyzed. 
Slept with the torpid serpents of the lightning. 
Bidding his dread voice — Nature's mightiest — 
Speak mystically of all hidden things 
To the attentive spirit. 

There is laid 
No knife upon her sacrificial altar. 
And from her lips there comes no pealing triumph. 
But to those crystal halls, where Silence sits 
Enchanted, hath arisen a mingled strain 
Of music, delicate; 'as the breath of buds; 
And on her shrine the virgin Hours lay 
Odors and exquisite dyes, like gifts that lungs 
Send from the spicy gardens of tlie East. 



A FOREST SCENE. 

I Kxow a forest vast and old — 

A shade so deep, so darkly green. 
That Morning sends her shaft of gold 

In vain to pierce its leafy screen : 
I know a brake where sleeps the fawn. 

The soft-eyed fawn, through noon's repose, 
For noon, with all the calm of dawn. 

Lies hushed beneath those dewy boughs. 

Oh ! proudly then the forest kings 

Their banners lift o'er vale and mount ; 
And cool and fi-esh the wild grass springs. 

By lonely path, by sylvan fount ; 
There, o'er the fair, leaf-laden rill 

The laurel sheds her clustered bloom, 
And throned upon the rock-wreathed hill 

The rowan waves his scarlet plume. 

No huntsman's call, no baying hound. 

Scares from his rest the light-limbed stag ; 
But following faint his airy bound, 

Glad Echo leaps from crag to crag. 
From morn till eve the wood-birds sing. 

And, by the wild wave's glittering play. 
The pheasant plumes her glossy wing, 

The doe lies couched at close of day. 

From slippery ledge, from moss-grown rock. 

Dash the swift waters at a bound ; 
And from the foam that veils the shock, 

Floats every wavelet sparlvle-crowned ; 
Through brake, and dell, and lawny glade, 

O'er gnarled root and mossy stone, 
Beneath the forest's emerald shade 

The stream winds murmuring, sparkling on. 

Far floating o'er its limpid breast 

The lily sends her petals fair — 
And, couched beneath her regal crest, 

The balm-flower scents the drowsy air; 
From spray and vine, o'er rocky ledge, 

Hang blossoms wild of crimson dye ; 
And on the curved and sanded edge 

The pink-lined shells, wave-polished, lie. 

There wakes no tone of idle mirth 

Amid those shadows vast and dim, 
But from the gentle lips of Earth 

How soft and low her forest hymn 1 
How sofl; and low, where stirs the wind 

Through the dark arches of the wood. 
Where, gray with moss, the boughs entwined 

Hang whispering o'er the chiming flood ! 

When twilight skies look faintly down. 

When noon hes hushed on leaf and spray, 
When midnight casts her silver crown 

Before the throne of godlike day — 
There, still, to earth's perpetual choir, 

The same sweet harmony is given: 
For angels wake her sacred lyre. 

And evei-y chord is strung by Heaven. 



'EDITH MAY." 



367 



A POET'S LOVE. 

The stag leaps free in the forest's heart, 

But thy step is lighter, ray love, my bride ! 
Light as the quick-footed breezes that part 

The plumy ferns on the mountain-side. 
Swift as the zephyrs that come and pass 
O'er the waveless lake and the billowy grass ; 
I hear thy voice where the white spray gleams, 
In the one-toned bells of the rippled streams, 
In the shivering boughs of the aspen tree, 

In the wind that stirreth the silvery pine. 
In the shell that moans of the distant sea — 

Never was voice so sweet as thine ! 
Never a sound through the even dim 
Came half so soft as thy vesper hymn. 

I have followed fast from the lark's low nest 
Tliy breezy step to the mountain crest ; 
The livelong day I have wandered on, 
Till the stars were up, the twilight gone ; 
Ever unwearied where thou hast roved, 
Fairest, and purest, and best beloved ! 
I have felt thy kiss in the leafy aisle. 

And thy breath astir in my waving hair, 
I have met the light of thy haunting smile 

In the deep, still woods, and the sunny air. 
For thou lookest down from the bending skies. 
And the eai'th is glad with thy laughing eyes. 

When my heart is sad and my pulse beats low, 
Whose touch so light on my burning brow 1 
Who Cometh in dreams to my midnight sleep t 

Who bendeth over my noonday rest 1 
Who singeth me songs in the forest deep, 

Laying my head to her gentle breast 1 
When life grows dim to my weary eye. 
When joy departeth and sorrow is nigh. 
Who, 'neath the track of the stars, save thee, 
Speaketh or singeth of hope to me 1 

There comes a time when the morn shall rise, 
Yet charm no smile to thy filmed eyes; 
There comes a time when thou liest low. 
With the roses dead on thy frozen brow, 
With a pall hung over thy tranced rest. 
And the pulse asleep in thy silent breast. 
There shall come a dirge through the valleys drear. 
And a white-robed priest to thine icy bier : 
His lip is cold, but his dim eyes weep, [deep. 

And he maketh thy grave where the snow falls 

Wo is me when I watch and pray 

For the lightest tread of thy coming foot. 

For the softest note of thy summer lay. 

For the faintest chord of thy vine-strung lute ! 

Wo is me when the storms sweep by. 

And the mocking winds are my sole reply ! 

A SONG FOR AUTUMN. 

FnTGiiTE?f the bird from the tasselled pine. 
Where he sings like a hope in a gloomy breast ; 

Tread down the blossoms that cling to the vine, 
Winnow the blooms from the mountain's crest ; 

Let the halm-flower sleep where the small brooks 
twine, 

And the golden-rod treasure the yellow sunshine. 



Muffle the bells of the faint-lipped waves ; 

Let the red leaves fall ; let the brown fawn leap 
Through the golden fern ; in the weedy caves 

Let the snake coil up for his winter sleep. 
Let the ringed snake coil where the earth is drear. 
Like a grief that grows cold as the heart grows sere. 
Pluck down the rainbow ; make steadfast the throne 

Of the star that was faint in the summer night; 
Let the white daughters of wave and sun 

Weep as they cloister the pale, pale light ; [rills. 
Let the mist-wreaths brood o'er the valley-bound 
And the sky trail its mantle far over the hills. 
Plunder the wrecks of the forest, and blind 

The waters that picture its ruinous dome. 
Wildly, oh wildly, most sorrowful wind ! 

Chant, like a prophet of terror to come — 
Like a Niobe stricken with infinite dread. 
Leave the spirit of Beauty alone with her dead. 
Throne the white Naiad that filleth her urn 

At the fount of the sun ; on the curtain of night 
Paint wild Auroras like visions that burn, 

Rosy Auroras, like dreams of delight. 
Mantle the earth, fold the robe on her breast, 
While the sky, like a seraph, hangs over her rest. 



A TRUE STORY OF A PAWN. 

Bows' from a mountain's craggy brow, 
His homeward way the hunter took. 
By a path that wound to the vales below, 
At the side of a leaping brook. 

Long and sore had his journey been. 
By the dust that clung to his forest green. 
By the stains on his broidered moccasin ; 
And over his shoulder his rifle hung. 
And an empty horn at his girdle swung. 

The eve crept westward : soft and pale 

The sunset poured its rosy flood 
Slanting over the wooded vale ; 

And the weary hunter stood. 

Looking down on his cot below. 
Watching his children there at play, 

Watching the swing on the chestnut bough 
Flit to and fro through the twihght gray. 
Till the dove's nest rocked on its quivering spray. 

Faint and far, through the forest wide, 

Came a hunter's voice and a hound's deep cry ; 
Silence, that slept in the rocky dell, 
Scai'cely woke, as her sentinel 
Challenged the sound from the mountain-side — 
Over the valleys the echo died ; 
And a doe sprang lightly by. 
And cleared the path, and panting stood, 
With her trembling fawn, by the leaping flood. 

She spanned the torrent at a bound. 
And swiftly onward, winged by fear, 

Fled, as the hay of the deep-mouthed hound 
Fell loudly on her ear ; 

And pausing by the waters deep. 
Too slight to stem their rapid flow. 

Too weak to dare the perilous leap. 
The fawn sprang wildly to and fro. 
Watching the flight of her lithe-limbed doe. 



368 



FRANCES A. AND METTA V. FULLER. 



Now she hung o'er the torrent's edge, 

And sobbed and wept as the waves shot by ; 

Now she paused on the rocky ledge, 
With head erect, and steadfast eye, 
Listening to the stag-hound's cry : 

Close from the forest the deep bay rang, 
Close in the forest the echoes died, 

And over the pathway the brown fawn sprang. 
And crouched by the hunter's side. 



Deep in the thickets the boughs unclasped, 
Leaped apart with a crashing sound ; 

Under the lithe vines, sure and fast, 
Came on the exulting hound — 

Yet, baffled, stopped to bay and glare, 
Far from the toiTent's bound : 

For the weeping fawn, still crouching there, 
Shrank not, nor fled, but closer pressed. 
And laid her head on the hunter's breast. 



FRANCES A. AND METTA V, FULLER. 



Miss Frances A. Fuller, and her sister, 
Miss Metta Victoria Fuller, have recent- 
ly published many poems and prose compo- 
sitions, which have been commended by the 
critical editors of the Home Journal, as evin- 
cing " miqueslionable signs of true genius." 



The latter has generally written under the 
signature of " Singing Sybil." The Misses 
Fuller are both very young, the oldest having 
been born about the year 1826. They reside 
in the pleasant village of Monroeville, in the 
northern part of Ohio. 



FRANCES A. FULLER. 



A REVBRY. 

Not from Fancy's land of wonders 

Come the dreams that haunt my brain ; 
But from out the Past's dim chambers 

Glide along the shadowy train. 
On each pale and solemn visage 

Is some old remembrance pressed. 
Some dear memory that hath Ungered 

Ever fadeless in my breast. 

And as troop on troop of visions 

Through Thought's silent halls defile. 
Like the ancient ghosts that wander 

Through some lone cathedral aisle, 
New-born fancies mix and mingle 

With the old familiar throng, , 

And the Past and Present meeting. 

Swell the river-tide of song. 

Dreams of Present have no power 

And no grandeur like the Past : 
Glory borrows its enchantment 

From the distance it is cast. 
But the Present is the wizard 

That can break Oblivion's seal, 
And the " dead Past's dead," unburied, 

By a magic word reveal. 

Life has many hidden currents. 

Like the cave-streams of the earth. 
Flowing deep and strong in secret. 

Ne'er betraying bourne or birth. 
And the flood in darkness wandering, 

With no flower upon its way, 
Has its course with richer treasures 

Than have met the glare of day. 



Light that sometimes shines upon it, 

Finds it deep, and pure, and cold ; 
And the starry gleam reflected 

Leaves no bosom secret told. 
In its deepest bed are hidden 

Treasures gathered from all life ; 
Pearls of thought and gold of feeling, 

Moveless in the current's strife. 

In life's lively panorama, 

Looking for what is to be. 
We forget to note the Present, 

Ere its changing phantoms flee ; 
But as clouds by tempests driven 

Scatter rain-drops as they fly. 
Many golden sands have fallen 

Where they must for ever lie. 

Of the dreams that throng around me 

" In the Spirit's pictured hall," 
Know I none whose shadowy presence 

I would choose not to recall. 
Come they to me by the midnight, 

Come they to me by the day, 
Memory's thousand silver pennons 

Float above their host alway. 

In my heart the plaintive treble 

Of the broken notes of song 
Make no discord in the music, 

As it flows in waves along ; 
For the spirit of my dreaming 

Sings me all the missing notes ; 
And the strain, to you so broken. 

Perfect to my hearing floats. 



FRANCES A. AND METTA V. FULLER. 



369 



THE OLD MAN'S FAVORITE. 

Do you ask where she has fled — 
Fanny, with the laughing eyes 1 

Should I tell yoa " She is dead," 
You would mimic tears and sighs, 
And affect a sad surprise. 

Yester-week, when you were here, 
She was sitting on your knee, 

Whispering stories in your ear 
With an air of mystery, 
And a roguish glance at me. 

Fanny's heart was always light — 
Light and free as plumed bird ; 

When she glanced within our sight, 
Or her merry voice we heard, 
Music in our hearts was stirred. 

Do you ask where Fanny hides 1 
I will tell you by-and-by ; 

Look you where the river glides. 
In whose depths the shadows lie 
Mingled of the earth and sky : 

Fanny always loved that spot ; 
There her favorite flowers grew — 

Violet, forget-me-not. 

And the iris gold and blue. 
With its pearly beads of dew. 

Oft on the old rustic bridge, 

Made of supple boughs entwined, 



Hanging from each margin's ridge 
Like a hammock in the wind, 
Fanny fearlessly reclined. 

And she 's told me, while her eyes 
Filled with tears of childish bliss, 

That she could see paradise 
From her rocking resting-place, 
Mirrored in the river's face. 

That she saw the tall trees wave. 

Bright-winged birds among their bowers. 

And a river that did lave 

Banks o'ergrown with fairest flowers. 
And a sky more blue than ours. 

Then she asked, with such a smile 
As an angel-face might wear. 

If she watched a long, long while, 
She could see her mother there, 
Walking in the groves so fair. 

When, to soothe the child, I said 
She should see mamma in heaven, 

To that frail old bridge, she sped 
As if wings to her were given ; 
And — but look! you see 'tis riven! 

Ha ! you start — ^your looks are wild ! 

Calm yourself, old man, I pray ; 
Fanny was an angel-child, 

And 'tis well she's gone away 

To her paradise so gay. 



METTA VICTORIA FULLER. 



THE POSTBOY'S SONG. 

The night is dark and the way is long, 

And the clouds are flying fast. 
The night-wind sings a dreary song, 

And the trees creak in the blast ; 
The moon is down in the tossing sea. 

And the stars shed not a ray ; 
The lightning flashes frightfully, 

But I must on my way. 

Full many a hundred times have I 

Gone o'er it in the dark. 
Till my faithful steeds can well descry 

Each long familiar mark : 
Withal, should peril come to-night, 

God have us in his care ! 
For without help and without light, 

The boldest may beware. 

Like a shuttle thrown by the hand of Fate, 

Forward and back I go. 
Bearing a thread to the desolate 

To darken their web of wo ; 
And a brighter thread to the glad of heart, 

And a mingled one to all, 
But the dark and the light I can not part. 

Nor alter their hues at all. 



On, on my steeds ! the lightning's 

An instant gilds our way — 
But steady ! by that fearful crash 
24 



flash 



The heavens seemed rent away ! 
Soho ! now comes the blast anew, 

And a pelting flood of rain : 
Steady — a sea seems bursting through 

A rifl; in some upper main ! 

'Tis a terrible night — a dreary hour — 

Yet who will remember to pray. 
That the care of the storm-controlling Power 

May be over the postboy's way ! 
The wayward wanderer from his home. 

The sailor upon the sea. 
Have prayers to bless them where they roam — 

Who thinketh to pray for me 1 

But the storm abates — uprides the moon 

Like a ship upon the sea : 
Now on, my steeds I this glorious moon 

Of a night so dark shall be 
A scene for us. Toss high your heads. 

And cheerily speed away : 
We shall startle the sleepers in their beds 

Before the dawn of day I 
Like a shuttle thrown by the hand of Fate 

Forward and back I go. 
Bearing a thread to the desolate 

To darken their web of wo — 
And a brighter thread to the glad of heart. 

And a mingled one for all : 
But the dark and the light I can not part. 

Nor alter their hues at all. 



370 



FRANCES A. AND METTA V. FULLER. 



MIDNIGHT. 

One by one, in slow succession, 
The twelve hours have floated by, 

Circling, in a still procession, 

Round a glittering throne on high ; 

Handmaids to the solemn midnight. 
As she walketh up the sky. 

With a motion slow and peerless, 
Up she glideth through the air, 

Mutely perfect, smileless, tearless, 
Hushed, and wonderfully fair — 

Pausing, in her quiet splendor. 
Where her twelve attendants are. 

All the stars their brows uncover, 

All the breezes die away. 
All the hours which round her hover, 

Stand in dim and mute array ; 
For the Midnight, pure and placid, 

Kneeleth on her throne to pray. 

Grand, beyond the power of telling. 
Is the Midnight in her prayer — 

All sublimity has dwelling 
On her brow, serenely fair ; 

Brighter than the crown of jewels 
Bound upon her raven hair. 

She is asking for a blessing 

On the earth that dreams below — 

And the leaves, their boughs caressing, 
Cease their waving to and fro. 

And the murmuring, trilling streamlet 
Seems to sing more soft and slow. 

Her pure eyes are upward beaming. 
And her pale hands folded lie : 

Oh, how beautiful this seeming 
Of the queen of all the sky. 

Meekly asking, mid her glory, 
From the greater power on hign. 

In her dim and holy presence 

The still world has grown more still. 

And soft silence's subtle essence 
Seems the breathless air to fill. 

Till the hushed heart of creation 
Scarcely dares with awe to thrill. 

In serene, subduing splendor. 

When her time of prayer has flown. 

Through the circle that attend her 
She descendeth from her throne — 

Gliding westward from the zenith. 
As they follow one by one. 

All the stars their faces cover, 
All the flowers droop with tears. 

And the breezes round them hover. 
With a whispered tale of fears. 

As the Midnight queen retireth. 
And the king of day appears. 

Were I but a star in heaven, 

Or a little flower, alone, 
I would worship, every even. 

The sweet Midnight on her throne ; 
But a worship yet more perfect 

Hath the living spirit known. 



THE SILENT SHIP. 

Wf. were sitting in the starlight, 

By the gliding river's side — 
He, a spirit pure and earnest, 

I, his sacred spirit-bride — 
Sitting in the holy starlight 

Falling from the jewelled sky. 
O'er the water just beneath us, 

Flowing bright and silent by. 

There was something dim and dreamy 

And so solemn in the air. 
And the earth was lying sweetly 

In her slumber still and fair ; 
And her breath had grown so quiet. 

That a fold it did not stir 
Of the green luxurious curtains. 

Drooping graceful over her. 

Silent dew and silent starlight. 

Silent earth and silent sky — 
All was hushed save one faint murmur 

Of the river flowing by — 
And one low, dear tone of music. 

Whispering in my thriUing ear 
Words so dreamlike in their beauty. 

That my soul could only hear — 

Words so eloquent and gentle. 

That I never may forget. 
They are ringing in sweet melody. 

Within my spirit yet ! 
In the dim, delicious silence. 

Even the water fell asleep. 
Looking bright and pure and placid. 

And immeasurably deep. 

And subdued by this strange beauty, 

The communer by my side 
Hushed his spiritual reveahngs. 

And sat voiceless by his bride. 
How beautiful this stillness — 

This intense yet softened rest ! 
A perfect sense of happiness 

Thrilled deep within each breast. 

When as we watched the trembling 

Of the starlight on the stream. 
From out the shadow of a curve. 

All noiseless as a dream. 
All slowly, softly, silently. 

All spirit-like and clear. 
Gliding through gently parting waves, 

We saw a ship appear. 

We hushed our breath, we hushed our hearts '■ 
No echo of a sound 

Came in, througli the dim loveliness. 
The solemn air around. 

We gazed upon the silent ship- 
No sign of life was there — 

Yet on it glided gracefully. 
All tall and straight and fair ! 

We saw the ripples break away 

And lose themselves in light. 
As gently but unwaveringly 

It stole upon our sight ; 



FRANCES A. AND METTA V. FULLER. 



371 



We saw each slender spar and mast 

Defined against the sky, 
As slowly, softly, silently, 

It phantom-like went by. 

A feeling of sublimity, 

Which could not be expressed, 
Sank heavy through the breathless hush 

Upon each throbless breast — ■ 
A sense of something beautiful. 

Yet almost to be feared. 
As slowly, softly, silently. 

The strange ship disappeared. 

" Sybil I" was breathed upon my ear, 

In one low, thrilling tone. 
As I felt the clasping of a hand 

Grow tighter on my own : 
It was enough — within our souls 

Each felt that ship to be 
An emblem of our spirit-love, 

Our mingled destiny. 

It seemed so like a hallowed spell. 

So like a lovely dream. 
With lingering steps we turned away 

From the star-lighted stream : 

Its beauty was so strange and wild, 

And inexpressible. 
That after many days had passed 

We found no words to tell 
Our thoughts of dreamy loveliness. 

And the certainty it gave 
That thus our still, deep spirit-love 

Should glide upon life's wave. 

Clouds now are o'er our silent ship, 

And not one starry gleam 
Falls softly through the shadows 

That dim life's troubled stream ! 
There are storms and clouds and darkness. 

But I ti-emble not with fear. 
For our ship will glide unshaken on 

Till the stars again appear. 

Such thoughts as these that silent ship 

Within our souls awoke, 
Are prophecies too sure and deep 

To be by darkness broke ; 
And whether there be storms or not, 

Our spirits linked must be. 
Till our bark is moored in safety 

In the far Eternity. 



THE SPIRIT OP MY SONG. 

Teli me, have you ever met her — 

Met the spirit of my song 1 
Have her wavelike footsteps glided 

Through the city's worldly throng ? 
You will know her by a wreath, 

Woven all of starry light. 
That is lying mid her hair — 

Braided hair as dark as night. 

A short band of radiant summers 

Is upon her forehead laid. 
Twining half in golden sunlight. 

Sleeping half in dreamy shade : 
Five white fingers clasp a lyre, 

Five its silvery strings awake. 
And bewildering to the soul 

Is the music that they make. 

Though her glances sleep like shadows 

'Neath each falling, silken lash. 
Yet, at aught that wakes resentment. 

They magnificently flash. 
Though you loved such dewy dream-hght. 

And such glance of sweet surprise. 
You could never bear the scorn 

Of those proud and briUiant eyes. 

There 's a sweet and winning cmining 

In her bright lip's crimson hue, 
And a flitting tint of roses 

From her soft cheek gleaming through : 
Do you think that you have met her 1 — 

She is young and pure and fair. 
And she wears a wreath of starlight 

In her braided, ebon hair. 

Often at her feet I 'm sitting, 

With my head upon her knee. 
While she tells me dreams of beauty 

In low words of melody ; 
And, when my imskilful fingers 

Strive her silvery lyre to wake. 
She will smooth my tresses, smiling 

At the discord which I make. 

But of late days I have missed her — 

The bright being of my love — 
And perchance she 's stolen pinions 

And has floated up above. 
Tell me, have you ever met her — 

Met the spirit of my song — 
Have her wavelike footsteps glided 

Through the city's worldly throng ? 



ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 



Among the younger Americaa poets there 
are few whom we regard with more inter- 
est, or whose writings inspire us with more 
hopeful anticipations, than these two sisters, 
who were born in a quiet and pleasant dis- 
trict in the vicinity of Cincinnati, where tliey 
have always resided, and most of the time 
in portionless and unprotected orphanage. 
Their education has been limited by the 
meagre and infrequent advantages of an ob- 
scure coimtry school, from which they were 
removed altogether at a very early age ; and 
with neither books nor literary friends to 
guide or encourage them, and in circum- 
stances which would have chilled and with- 
ered common natures, they " have been and 
still are, humble" but most acceptable "wor- 
shippers in the glorious temple of song." 

Alice and Phcebe Caret have but very re- 
cently become Ivnown at all in the literary 
world. It is but two or three years since I 
first saw the name of either of them, in a 
western newspaper, and of nearly a hundred 
of the poems which are now before me, 
probably not one has been written more than 
that time. " We write," observes Alice Ca- 
rey, in a letter which I regret that I may not 
copy here entire, that the reader's affection 
might be kindled with his admiration, " we 
write with much facility, often producing 
two or three poems in a day, and never elab- 
orate. We have printed, exclusive of our 



early productions, some three hundred and 
fifty, which those in your possession fairly 
represent." And these are the fruits of no 
literary leisure, but the mere pastimes of 
lives that are spent in prosaic dulies, light- 
ened and made grateful only by the presence 
of the muse. 

In the west, song gushes and flows, like 
the springs and rivers, more imperially than 
elsewhere, as they will believe who study 
her journals, or who read these effusions and 
those of Amelia Welby, the authors of The 
Wife of Leon, and other young poets, whose 
minds seem to be elevated, by the glorious 
nature there, into the atmosphere where all 
thought takes a shape of beauty and harmo- 
ny. A delicious play of fancy distinguishes 
much of the finest poetry of the sex ; but 
Alice Carey evinces in many poems a genu- 
ine imagination and a creative energy that 
challenges peculiar praise. We have per- 
haps no other author, so young, in whom the 
poetical faculty is so largely developed. Her 
sister writes with vigor, and a hopeful and 
genial spirit, and there are many felicities 
of expression, particularly in her later pieces. 
She refers more than Alice to the common 
experience, and has perhaps a deeper sym- 
pathy with that philosophy and those move- 
ments of the day, which look for a nearer 
approach to equality, in culture, fortune, and 
social relations. 



ALICE CAREY. 



THE HANDMAID. 



Wht rests a shadow on her woman's heart 1 

In hfe's more girlish hours it was not so ; 
111 hath she learned to hide with harmless art 

The soundings of the plummet-line of wo ! 
Oh, what a world of tenderness looks through 

The melting sapphire of her mournful eyes : 
Less softly moist are violets full of dew. 

And the delicious color of the skies. 
Serenely amid worship doth she move, 

Counting its passionate tenderness as dross ; 
And tempering the pleadings of earth's love. 

In the still, solemn shadows of the cross. 
It is not that her heart is cold or vain, 

That thus she moves through many worshippers ; 



No step is lighter by the coucli of pain. 
No hand on fever's brow lies soft as hers. 

From the loose flowing of her amber hair 
The summer flowers we long ago unknit, 

As something between joyance and despair 
Came in the chamber of her soul to sit. 

In her white cheek the crimson burns as faint 
As red doth in some cold star's chastened 
beam; 

The tender meekness of the pitying saint 
Lends all her life the beautj' of a dream. 

Thus doth she move among us day by day, 
Loving and loved — but passion can not move 

The young heart that hath wrapped itself away 
In the soft mantle of a Savior's love. 
373 




TTME IKlffiRliaSfflfiD 



ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 



373 



HYMN OF THE TRUE MAN. 

Peace to the True Man's ashes ! Weep for those 
Whose days in old delusions have giowii dim ; 

Such lives as his are triumphs, and their close 
An immortality : weep not for him. 

As feathers wafted from the eagle's wings 

Lie bright among the rocks they can not warm, 

So he the flowery lays that Genius brings, 
In the cold turf that wraps his honored form. 

A practical rebuker of vain strife. 

Bolder in deeds than words, from beardless youth 
To the white hairs of age, he made his life 

A beautiful consecration to the Truth. 

A'^irtue, neglected long, and trampled down, 
Grew stronger in the echo of his name ; 

And, shrinking self-condemned beneath his frown, 
The cheek of harlotry grew red with shame. 

Serene with conscious peace, he strewed his way 
With sweet humanities, the growth of love ; 

Shaping to right his actions, day by day, 
Faithful to this world aad to that above. 

The ghosts of blind belief and hideous crime. 
Of spirit-broken loves, and hopes betrayed. 

That flit among the broken walls of Time, 
Are by the 'True Man's exorcisms laid. 

Blest in his life, who to himself is true. 

And blest his death — for memory, when he dies, 

Comes, with a lover's eloquence, to renew 
Our faith in manhood's upward tendencies. 

Weep for the self-abased, and for the slave, 
And for God's children darkened with the smoke 

Of the red altar — not for him whose grave 
Is greener than the misletoe of the oak. 



PALESTINE. 

BniGHT inspiration ! shadowing my heart 

Like a sweet thing of beauty — could I see 
Tabor and ('armel ere I hence depart. 
And tread the quiet vales of Galilee, 
And look from Hermon with its dew and flowers. 
Upon the broken walls and mossy towers. 
O'er which the Son of man in sadness wept, 
The golden promise of my life were kept. 

Alas ! the beauteous cities, crowned with flowers, 

And robed with royalty ! no more in thee. 
Fretted with golden pinnacles and towers, 

They sit in haughty beauty by the sea : 
Shadows of rocks, precipitate and dark, 

Rest still and heavy where they found a grave ; 
There glides no more the humble fisher's bark, 

And the wild heron drinks not ot the wave. 

But still the silvery willows fringe the rills, 

Judea's shepherd watches still his fold ; 
And round about Jerusalem the hills 

Stand in their solemn grandeur as of old ; 
And Sharon's roses still as sweetly bloom 

As when the apostles, in the days gone by, 
Rolled back the shadows from the dreary tomb. 

And brought to light Life's ImmortaUty. 



The East has lain down many a beauteous bride. 

In the dim silence of the sepulchre, 
Whose names are shrined in story, but beside 

Their lives no sign to teli they ever were. 
The imperial fortresses of old renown — [now? 

Rome, Carthage, Thebes — alas ! where are they 
In the dim distance lost and crumbled down ; 

The glory that was of them, from her brow 
Took of the wreath in centuries gone by. 
And walked the Path of Shadows silently. 

But Palestine ! what hopes are born of thee — 

I can not paint their beauty, hopes that rise. 
Sinking this perishing mortality 

To the bright, deathless glories of the skies : 
Where the sweet Babe of Bethlehem was born — 

Love's mission finished there in Calvary's gloom ; 
There blazed the glories of the rising mom. 

And Death lay gasping there at Jesus' tomb ! 



OLD STORIES. 

No beautiful star will twinkle 

To-night through my window-pane. 

As I list to the mournful falling 
Of the leaves and the autumn rain. 

High up in his leafy covert 

The squirrel a shelter hath ; 
And the tall grass hides the rabbit, 

Asleep in the churchyard path. 

On the hills is a voice of wailing 
For the pale dead flowers again, 

That sounds like the heavy traihng 
Of robes in a funeral train. 

Oh, if there were one who loved me — 
A kindly and gray-haired sire, 

To sit and rehearse old stories 
To-night by my cabin fire : 

The winds as they would might rattle 
The boughs of the ancient trees — 

In the tale of a stirring battle 
My heart would forget all these. 

Or if by the embers dying 

We talked of the past, the while, 

I should see bright spirits flying 
From the pyramids and the Nile. 

Echoes from harps long silent 

Would troop through the aisles of time, 
And rest on the soul like sunshine. 

If we talked of the bards subhme. 

But hark ! did a phantom call me. 
Or was it the wind went by 1 

Wild are my thoughts and restless, 
But they have no power to fly. 

In place of the cricket humming. 
And the moth by the candle's light, 

I hear but the deathv/atch drumming — 
I 've heard it the livelong night. 

Oh for a friend who loved me — 

Oh for a gray-haired sire. 
To sit with a quaint old story, 

To-night by my cabin fire. 



374 ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 


PICTURES OF MEMORY. 


But the bird of the burning desert 




Among the beautiful pictures 
That hang on Memoiy's wall, 


Goes by with a noiseless ti-ead. 
And the tent of the restless Arab 




Is one of a dim old forest, 


Is silently near him spread. 




That seemeth best of all : 


Oh, could we remember only, 




Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 


Who shrink from the lightest ill. 




Dark with the mistletoe ; 


His sorrows, who, bruised and lonely. 




Not for the violets golden 


Wrought on in the vineyard still — 




That sprinkle the vale below ; 


Surely the tale of sorrow 




Not for the milk-white UHes, 


Would fall on the mourner's breast, 




That lead ii-om the fragrant hedge. 


Hushing, like oil on the waters, 




Coquetting all day with the sunbeams. 


The troubled wave to rest. 




And stealing their golden edge ; 






Not for the vines on the upland 
Where the bright red berries rest. 


VISIONS OV LIGHT. 




Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip, 


The moon is rising in beauty, 




It seemeth to me the best. 


The sky is solemn and bright. 




I once had a little brother. 


And the waters are singing like lovers 




With eyes that were dark and deep^ 


That walk in the valleys at night. 




In the lap of that old dim forest 


Like the towers of an ancient city. 




He lieth in peace asleep : 


That darken against the sky. 




Light as the down of the thistle. 


Seems the blue mist of the river 




Free as the winds that blow, 


O'er the hill-tops far and high. 




We roved there the beautiful summers. 


I see through the gathering darloiess 




The summers of long ago ; 


The spire of. the village church, 




But his feet on the hills grew weary. 


And the pale white tombs, half hidden 




And, one of the autumn eves. 


By the tasselled willow and birch. 




I made for my little brother 
A bed of the yellow leaves. 


Vain is the golden drifting 
Of morning light on the hill ; 




Sweetly his pale arms folded 


No white hands opens the windows 




My neck in a meek embrace. 


Of those chambers low and still. 




As the light of immortal beauty 


But their dwellers were all my kindred. 




Silently covered his face : 


Whatever their lives might be. 




And when the arrows of sunset 


And their sufferings and achievements 




Lodged in the tree-tops bright. 


Have recorded lessons for me. 




He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 
Asleep by the gates of Ught. 

Therefore, of all the pictures 
That hang on Memory's wall. 

The one of the dim old forest 


Not one of the countless voyagers 

Of life's mysterious main, 
Has laid down his burden of sorrows. 

Who hath lived and loved in vain. 




Seemeth the best of all. 


From the bards of the elder ages 
Fragments of song float by. 






Like flowers in the streams of summer, 




THE TWO MISSIONARIES. 


Or stars in the midnight sky. 




In the pyramid's heavy shadows. 


Some plumes in the dust are scattered. 




And by the Nile's deep flood. 


Where the eagles of Persia flew, 




They leaned on the arm of Jesus, 


And wisdom is reaped from the furrows 




And preached to the multitude : 


The plough of the Roman drew. 




Where only the ostrich and parrot 


From the white tents of the crusaders 




Went by on the burning sands, 


The phantoms of glory are gone, 




They builded to God an altar, 


But the zeal of the barefooted hermit 




Lifting up holy hands. 


In humanity's heart lives on. 




But even while loieeling lowly 


Oh, sweet as the bell of the sabbath 




At the foot of the cross to pray. 


In the tower of the village church, 




Eternity's shadows slowly 


Or the fall of the yellow moonbeams 




Stole over their pilgrim way : 


In the tasselled willow and birch — 




And one, with the journey weary. 


Comes a thought of the blessed issues 




And faint with the spirit's strife. 


That shall follow our social strife. 




Fell sweetly asleep in Jesus, 


When the spirit of love maketh perfect 




Hard by the gates of life. 


The beautiful mission of life : 




Oh, not in Gethsemane's garden. 


For visions of light are gathered 




And not by Genesareth's wave, 


In the sunshine of flowery nooks. 




The light, Uke a golden mantle, 


Like the shades of the ghostly Fathers 




O'erspreadeth his lowly grave ; 


In their twiUght cells of books ! 





ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 



375 



HELVA. 

Her white hands full of mountain flowers, 
Down by the rough rocks and the sea, 

Helva, the raven-tressed, for hours 
Hath gazed forth earnestly. 

Unconscious that the salt spray flecks 
The ebon beauty of her hair — 

What vision is it she expects 1 
So meekly lingering there. 

Is it to see the sea fog lift 

From the broad bases of the hills, 

Or the red moonhght's golden diift. 
That her soft bosom tlu'ills 1 

Or yet to see the starry hours 

Their silver network round her throw, 

That 'neath the white hands, full of flowers, 
Her heart heaves to and fro 1 

Why strains so far the aching eye 1 
Kind nature wears to-night no firown, 

And the still beauty of the sky 
Keeps the mad ocean down. 

Why are those damp and heavy locks 
Put back, the faintest sound to win 1 

Ah ! where tlie beacon lights the rocks, 
A ship is riding in ! 

Who comes forth to the vessel's side. 

Leaning upon the manly arm 
Of one who wraps with tender pride 

The mantle round her form 1 

Oh Helva, watcher of lone hours, 
May God in mercy give thee aid ! 

Thy cheek is whiter than thy fjowers — 
Thy woman's heart betrayed ! 

THE TIME TO BE. 

I SIT where the leaves of the maple. 
And the gnarled and knotted gum, 

Are circling and drifting around me, 
And think of the time to come. 

For the human heart is the mirror 
Of the things that are near and far ; 

Like the wave that reflects in its bosom 
The flower and the distant star. 

And beautiful to my vision 

Is the time it prophetically sees, 

As was once to the monarch of Persia 
The gem of the Cyclades. 

As change is the order of Nature, 
And beauty springs from decay, 

So in its destined season 

The false for the true makes way. 

The darkening power of evil. 
And discordant jars and crime, 

Are the cry preparing the wilderness 
For the flower and the harvest-time. 

Though doubtings and weak misgivings 

May rise to the soul's alarm. 
Like the ghosts of the heretic burners. 

In the province of bold Keform. 



And now, as the summer is fading. 
And the cold clouds full of rain, 

And the net in the fields of stubble 
And the briars, is spread in vain — 

I catch, through the mists of life's river, 

A glimpse of the time to be, 
When the chain firom the bondman rusted. 

Shall leave him erect andfree — 

On the solid and broad foundation, 

A common humanity's right. 
To cover his branded shoulder 

With the garment of love from sight. •• 



TO LUCY. 

The leaves are rustUng mournfully, 

The yellow leaves and sere ; 
For Winter with his naked arms 

And chilling breath is here : 
The rills that all the autumn-time 

Went singing to the sea, 
Are waiting in their icy chains 

For Spring to set them fi'ee ; 
No bird is heard the live-long day 

Upon its mates to call, 
And coldly and capriciously 

The slanting sunbeams fall. 

There is a shadow on my heart 

I can not fling aside — 
Sweet sister of my soul, with thee 

Hope's brightest roses died ! 
I'm thinking of the pleasant hours 

That vanished long ago, 
When summer was the goldenest. 

And all things caught its glow : 
I 'm thinking where the violets 

In fragrant beauty lay. 
Of the buttercups and primroses 

That blossomed in our way. 

I see the willow, and the spring 

O'ergrown with purple sedge ; 
The lilies and the scarlet pinks 

That grew along the hedge ; 
The meadow, where the elm tree threw 

Its shadows dark and wide, 
And, sister, flowers in beauty grew 

And perished side by side : 
O'er the accustomed vale and hill 

Now Winter's robe is spread, 
The beetle and the moth are still, 

And all the flowers are dead. 

I mourn for thee, sweet sister. 

When the wintry hom's are here. 
But when the days grow long aud bright, 

And skies are blue and clear — 
Oh, when the Summer's banquet 

Among the flowers is spread, 
My spirit is most sorrowful 

That thou art with the dead : 
We laid thee in thy narrow bed. 

When autumn winds were high — 
Thy life had taught us how to Uve, 

And then we learned to die. 



^1 



376 



ALICE AND PHCEBE CAEEY. 



A LEGEND OF ST. MARY'S. 

One night, when bitterer winds than ours, 
On hill-sides and in valleys low, 

Built sepulchres for the dead fiowers. 
And buried them in sheets of snow — 

When over ledges, dark and cold. 

The sweet moon, rising high and higher, 

Tipped with a dimly burning gold 
St. Mary's old cathedral spire. 

The lamp of the confessional, 

(God grant it did not burn in vain,) 

After the solemn midnight bell. 

Streamed redly through the lattice-pane. 

And kneeling at the father's feet, 
Whose long and venerable hairs, 

Now whiter than the mountain sleet, 

Could not have numbered half his prayers, 

Was one — I can not picture true 
The cherub beauty of his guise ; 

Lilies, and waves of deepest blue. 

Were something like his hands and eyes ! 

Like yellow mosses on the rocks. 

Dashed with the ocean's milk-white spray, 
The softness of his golden locks 

About his neck and forehead lay. 

Father, thy tresses, silver-sleet, 
Ne'er swept above a form so fair ; 

Surely the flowers beneath his feet 
Have been a rosary of prayer ! 

We know not, and we can not know, 
Why swam those meek blue eyes with tears ; 

But surely guilt, or guiltless wo. 

Had bowed him earthward more than years. 

All the long summer that was gone, 
A cottage maid, the village pride. 

Fainter and fainter smiles had worn. 
And on that very night she died ! 

As soft the yellow moonbeams streamed 

Across her bosom, snowy fair. 
She said (the watchers thought she dreamed) 

'Tis like the shadow of his hair ! 

And they could hear, who nearest came,^ 
The cross to sign and hope to lend. 

The murmur of another name 

Than that of mother, brother, friend. 

An hour — and St. Mary's spires. 

Like spikes of flame, no longer glow — 

No longer the confessional fires 
Shine redly on the drifted snow. 

An hour — and the saints had claimed 
That cottage maid, the village pride ; 

And he, whose name in death she named, 
Was darkly weeping by her side. 

White as a spray-wreath lay her brow 
Beneath the midnight of her hair, 

But all those passionate kisses now 
Wake not the faintest crimson there ! 

Pride, honor, manhood, can not check 
The vehemence of love's despahr — 



No soft hand steals about his neck, 
Or bathes its beauty in his hair ! 

Almost upon the cabin walls, 

Wherein the sweet young maiden died. 
The shadow of a castle falls, 

Where for her young lord waits a bride ! 

With clear blue eyes, and fair brown curls. 
In her high turret still she sits ; 

But ah, what scorn her ripe lip curls — 
What shadow to her bosom flits ! 

From that low cabin tapers flash. 

And, by the shimmering light they spread, 
She sees beneath its mountain ash. 

Leafless, but all with berries red, 

Impatient of the unclasped rein, 

A courser that should not be there — 

The silver whiteness of his mane 
Streaming like moonlight on the air ! 

Oh, Love ! thou art avenged too well — 
The young heart, broken and betrayed, 

Where thou didst meekly, sweetly dwell, 
For all its suflerings is repaid. 

Not the proud beauty, nor the frown 
Of her who shares the living years, 

From her the winding-sheet wraps down, 
Can ever buy away the tears ! 



WATCHING. 

Tht smile is sad, Elella, 

Too sad for thee to wear. 
For scarcely have we yet untwined 

The rosebuds from thy hair ! 
So, dear one, hush thy sobbing. 

And let thy tears be dried — 
Methinks thou shouldst be happier, 

Three little months a bride I 
Hark ! how the winds are heaping 

The snow-drifts cold and white — 
The clouds like spectres cross the sky — 

Oh, what a lonesome night ! 
The hour grows late and later, 

I hear the midnight chime : 
Thy heart's fond keeper, where is he ? 

Why comes he not 1 — 'tis time ! 
Here make my heart thy pillow, 

And, if the hours seem long, 
I '11 while them with a legend wild, 

Or fragment of old song — 
Or read, if that will soothe thee. 

Some poet's pleasant rhymes : 
Oh, I have watched and waited thus, 

I can not tell the times ! 
Hush, hark ! across the neighboring hills 

I hear the watchdog bay — 
Stir up the fire, and trim the lamp, 

I 'm sure he 's on the way ! 
Could that have only been the winds. 

So like a footstep near 1 
No, smile Elella, smile again. 

He 's coming home — he 's here ! 



ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 377 


AN EVENING TALE. 


Within the walls of the convent 




Those beautiful locks were shorn : 


Come, thou of the drooping eyelid, 


And wherefore the veil was taken 


And cheek that is meekly pale, 


Was never revealed by time. 


Give over thy pensive musing 
And list to a lonesome tale : 
For hearts that are torn and bleeding. 


But Charity sweetly hopeth 
For sorrow, and not for crime. 


Or heavy as thine, and lone. 
May find in another's sorrov? 






Forgetfulness of their own : 


GEORGE BURROUGHS* 


So heap on the blazing fagots 




And trim the lamp anew, 


Oh, dark as the creeping of shadows. 


And I '11 tell you a mournful story — 


At night, o'er the burial hill. 


I would that it were not true ! 


When the pulse in the stony artery 




Of the bosom of earth is still — 


The bright red clouds of the sunset 




On the tops of the mountains lay, 


When the sky, through its frosty curtain, 


And many and goodly vessels 


Shows the glitter of many a lamp. 


Were anchored below in the bay — ■ 


Burning in brightness and stillness. 


We saw the walls of the city, 


Like the fire of a far-off camp — 


And could hear its vexing din. 
As our mules, with their nostrils smoking. 

Drew up at a wayside inn : 
The hearth was ample and blazing, 


Must have been the thoughts of the martyr. 
Of the jeers and the taunting scorn, 

And the cunning trap of the gallows, 
That waited his feet at morn — 


For the night was something chill, 




But my heart, though I knew not wherefore. 


As down in his lonesome dungeon 


Sank down with a sense of ill. 


The hours trooped silent and slow. 


That night I stood on the terrace 


Like sentinels through the thick darkness, 


O'erlooking a blossomy vale. 


Hard by the tents of the foe. 


And the gray old walls of a convent 


Could he hear the voices of music 


That loomed in the moonlight pale — 


That thrilled that deep heart of gloom 1 


Till the lamp of the sweet Madonna 


Or see the pale and still beauty 


Grew faint as if burning low, 


That sweetly leaned by the tomb 1 


And the midnight bell in the turret 




Swung heavily to and fi-o — 


Could he note through the cold and thin shadow 


When just as its last sweet music 


That swept through his prison bars, 


Came back from the echoing hill. 


The white hand of the pure seraph 


And the hymn of the ghostly friars 


That beckoned him to the stars 1 


In the fretted aisle grew still — 


As, roused to the stony rattle 


On a rude bench, hid among olives, 


Of the hangman's open cart, 


I noted a maiden fair, 


He smothered, till only God heard it — 


Alone, with the night wind playing 


The piercing cry of his heart. 


In the locks of her raven hair : 
Thrice came the sound of her sighing, 

And thrice were her red lips pressed 
With wild and passionate fervor 

To the cross that hung on her breast : 


Can Christ's mercy wash back to whiteness 
The feet his raiment that trod, 

Whose soul, from that dark persecution. 
Went up to the bosom of God 1 


But her bearing was not the bearing 


Hath he forgiveness, who shouted. 


That to saintly soul belongs. 


" Righteously do ye, and well. 


Albeit she chanted the fragments 


To quench in blood, hot and smoking. 


Of holy and beautiful songs. 


This firebrand, which is of hell V 


'Twas the half hour after the midnight. 


Over fields moistened thus darkly 


And, so hke that it might be now. 


Wave harvests of tolerance now ; 


The full moon was meekly climbing 


But the tombstones of the old martyrs 


Over the mountain's brow — 
When the step of the singing maiden 
In the corridor lightly trod, 


Sharpened the share of the plough ! 


* No purer hearts or more heroic spirits ever perished 


And I presently saw her kneeling 


at the stalte, than some crushed and brolien on the wheel 


In prayer to the mother of God ! 


of bigotry during the Puritan Rei^n of Terror. Among 


On the leaves of her golden missal 


them, I would instance the Rev. George BuiToughs, who 
prayed with and for his repentant accuser the day previ- 


Darkly her loose locks lay. 


ous to his execution, and whose comiction demonstrated 


As she cried, " Forgive me, sweet Vurgin, 


the righteousness of God to the Rev. Cotton Mather. Af- 


And mother of Jesus, I pray !" 


ter his execution, to vvhich he was conveyed in an open 
cart, Mr, Burroughs was stripped of his clothing, dragged 


When the music was softly melting 


by the hangman's rope to a rocky excavation, in which, 
being thrown and trampled on by the mob, he was finally 


From, the eloquent lips of morn. 


left partly uncovered. 



378 ALICE AND PHCEBE CAEEY. 


LIGHTS OF GENIUS. 


SAILOR'S SONG. 


Upheaving pillars, on whose tops 


Ha ! the bird has fled my arrow — 


The white stars rest like capitals, 


Though the sunshine of its plumes. 


Whence every living spark that drops 


Like the summer dew is dropping, 


Kindles and blazes as it falls ! 


On its native valley blooms ; 


And if the arch-fiend rise to pluck, 


In the shadow of its parting wing 


Or stoop to crush their beauty down, 


Shall I sit down and pine. 


A thousand other sparks are struck, 


That it pours its song of beauty 


That Glory settles in her crown. 


On another heart than mine ! 


The huge ship, with its brassy share. 


From thy neck, my trusty charger, 


Ploughs the blue sea to speed their course. 


I will strip away the rein, 


And veins of iron cleave the air, 


But to crop the floweiy prairie 


To waft them from their burning source ! 


May it never bend again ! 


All, from the insect's tiny wings, 


With thy hoof of flinty silver. 


And the small drop of morning dew, 


And thy blue eye shining bright, 


To the wide universe of things, 


Through the red mists of the morning 


The light is shining, burning through. 


Speed like a beam of light. 


Too deep for our poor thoughts to gauge 


I'm sick of the dull landsmen — 


Lie their clear sources, bright as truth, 
Whence flows upon the locks of age 

The beauty of eternal youth. 
Think, oh my faltering brother ! think, 


'Tis time, my lads, that we 
Were crowding on the canvass. 

And standing out to sea ! 
Ever making from the headlands 


If thou wilt try, if thou hast tried. 
By all the lights thou hast, to sink 
The shaft of an immortal tide ! 


Where the wrecker's beacons ride. 
Red and deadly, like the shadow 

Of the lion's brinded hide ; 
And hugging close the islands, 

That are belted with the blue, 


DEATH'S FERRYMAN, -l 


BoATMAS, thrice I've called thee o'er, 


Where a thousand birds are singing 


Waiting on life's solemn shore. 


In the dells of light and dew ; 


Tracing, in the silver sand, 


Time unto our songs the billows 


Letters till thy boat should land. 


With their dimpled hands shall keep. 


Drifting out alone with thee. 


As we 're ploughing the white furrows 


Toward the clime I can not see. 


In the bosom of the deep ! 


Read to me the strange device 


In watching the light flashing 


Graven on thy wand of ice. 


Like live sparks from our prow, 


Push the curls of golden hue 


With but the bitter kisses 


From thy eyes of starlit dew, 


Of the cold surf on my brow. 


And behold me where I stand, 


May my voyage at last be ended, 


Beckoning thy boat to land. 


And my sleep be in the tide. 


Where the river mist, so pale, 
Trembles like a bridal veil. 


With the sea-waves clasped around me, 


Like the white arms of a bride ! 


O'er yon lowly drooping tree. 




' 


One that loves me waits for me. 


TO THE EVENING ZEPHYR. 


Hear, sweet boatman, hear my call ! 
Last year, with the leaflet's fall, 
Resting her pale hand in mine. 
Crossed she in that boat of thine. 


I SIT where the wild-bee is humming. 

And listen in vain for thy song ; 
I've waited before for thy coming. 




But never, oh, never so long ! 


When the corn shall cease to grow, 
And the ryefield's silver flow 


How oft with the blue sky above us. 
And waves breaking light on the shore, 


At the reaper's feet is laid. 


Thou, knowing they would not reprove us, 


Crossmg, spake the lovely maid : 


Hast kissed me a thousand times o'er ! 


Dearest love, another year 


Alone in the gathering shadows. 


Thou shall meet this boatman here — 


Still waiting, sweet Zephyr, for thee, 


The white fingers of despair 


I look for the waves of the meadows. 


Playing with his golden hair. 


And dimples to dot the blue sea. 


From this silver-sanded shore, 


The blossoms that waited to greet thee 


Beckon him to row thee o'er ; 


With heat of the noontide oppressed, 


Where yon solemn shadows be. 


Now flutter so light to meet thee. 


I shall wait thee — come and see ! 


Thou'rt coming, I know, from the west. 


There ! the white sails float and flow, 


Alas ! if thou findest me pouting. 


One in heaven and one below ; 


'T is only my love that alarms ; 


And I hear a low voice cry, 


Forgive, then, I pray thee, my doubting, 


Ferryman of Death am I. 


And take me once more to thine arms ! 



ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 



379 



MUSINGS BY THREE GRAVES. 

The dappled clouds are broken : bright and cleai 
Comes up the broad and glorious star of day ; 

And night, the shadowy, like a hunted deer, 
Flies from the close pursuer fast away. 

Now on my ear a murmur faintly swells, 
And now it gathers louder and more deep, 

As the sweet music of the village bells 
Rouses the drowsy rustic from his sleep. 

Hark ! there 's a footstep startling up the birds, 
And now as softly steals the breeze along ; 

I hear the sound, and almost catch the words 
Of the sweet fragment of a pensive song. 

And yonder, in the clover-scented vale — 
Her bonnet in her hand, and simply clad — 

I see the milkmaid with her flowing pail : 
Alas ! what is it makes her song so sad ! 

In the seclusion of these lowly dells. 

What mournful lesson has her bosom learned '! 
Is it the memoiy of sad farewells, 

Or faithless love, or friendship unretumed 1 

Methinks yon sunburnt swain, with knotted thong, 
And rye-straw hat slouched careless on his brow, 

Whistled more loudly, passing her along. 
To yoke his patient oxen to the plough. 

'Tis all in vain : she heeds not, if she hears. 
And, sadly musing, separate ways they go : 

Oh, who shall tell how many bitter tears 
Are mingled in the brightest fount below 1 

Poor, simple tenant of another's lands, 
Vexed with no dream of heraldic renown ; 

No more the earnings of his sinewy hands 
Shall make his spirit like the thistle's down. 

Smile not, recipient of a happier fate. 

And haply better formed life's ills to bear. 

If e'er you pause to road the name and date 
Of one who died the victim of despair. 

Now morn is fully up ; and while the dew 
From off her golden locks is brightly shed. 

In the deep shadows of the solemn yew 
I sit alone and muse above the dead. 

Not with the blackbird whistling in the brake, 
Nor when the rabbit lightly near them treads, 

Shall they from their deep slumbering awake. 
Who lie beneath me m their narrow beds. 

Oh, what is life 1 at best a narrow bound. 

Where each that lives some baffled hope survives : 

A search for something, never to be found. 
Records the history of the greatest lives ! 

There is a haven for each weary bark, 

A port where they who rest are free from sin ; 

But we, like children trembling in the dark, 
Drive on and on, afraid to enter in. 



Here lies an aged patriarch at rest. 

To whom the needy never vainly cried, 

Till in this vale, with toil and }"ears oppressed, 
His long-sustaining staff was laid aside. 

Oft for his country had he fought and bled. 
And gladly, when the lamp of lil'e grew dim, 

He joined the silent army of the dead — 

Then why should tears of sorrow flow for him t 

We mourn not for the cornfield's deep'ning gold. 
Nor when the sickle on the hills is plied ; 

And wherefore should we sorrow for the old 
Who perish when Hfe's paths have all been tried 1 

How oft at noon, beneath the orchard trees. 
With brow serene and venerably fair, 

I 've seen a little prattler on his knees. 

Smoothing with dimpled hand his silver hair. 

When music floated on the sunny hills, [drest. 
And trees and shrubs with opening flowers were 

She meekly put aside life's cup of ills, 

And kindly neighbors laid her here to rest. 

And ye who loved her, would ye call her back. 
Where its deep thirst the soul may never slake; 

And sorrow, with her lean and hungry pack, 
Pursues through every winding which we take 'i 

Where lengthened years but teach the bitter truth, 
That transient preference does not make a friend ; 

That manhood disavows the love of youth, 
And riper years of manhood, to the end. 

Beneath this narrow heap of mouldering earth. 
Hard by the mansions of the old and young, 

A wife and mother sleeps, whose humble vi'orth 
And quiet virtues poet never sung. 

With yonder cabin, half with ii'y veiled. 
And children by the hand of mercy sent — 

And love's sweet star, that never, never paled, 
Her bosom knew the fulness of content. 

Mocking ambition never came to tear 
The finest fibres from her heart away — 

The aim of her existence was to bear 

The cross in patient meekness day by day. 

No hopeless, blind idolater of chance. 

The sport and plaything of each wind that blows, 

But lifting still by faith a heavenward glance. 
She saw the waves of death around her close. 

And here her children come with pious tears, 
And strew their simple offerings in the sod ; 

And learn to tread like her the vale of years, 
Beloved of man and reconciled to God. 

Now from the village school the urchins come, 
And shout and laughter echo far and wide ; 

The blue smoke curls from many a rustic home, 
Where aU their simple wants are well supplied. 

The labored hedger, pausing by the way. 
Picks the ripe berries from the gadding vine : 

The axe is still, the cattle homeward stray. 
And transient glories mark the day's decline. 



380 



ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 



PHCEBE CAREY. 



THE LOVERS. 



Thou marvelest why so oft her eyes 

Fill with the heavy dew of tears — 
Have I not told thee that there lies 

A shadow darkly on her years ? 
Life was to her one sunny whole, 

Made up of visions fancy wove, 
Till that the waters of her soul 

Were troubled by the touch of love. 
I knew when first the sudden pause 

Upon her spiiit's sunsliine fell — 
Alas ! I little guessed the cause, 

'Twas hidden in her heart so well : 
Our lives since early infancy 

Had flowed as rills together flow, 
And now to hide her thought from me 

Was bitterer than to tell its wo. 

One niglit, when clouds with anguish black 

A tempest in her bosom woke. 
She crushed the bitter tear-drops back, 

And told me that her heart was broke ! 
I learned it when the autumn hours 

With wailing winds around us sighed — 
'T was summer when her love's young flowers 

Burst into glorious life, and died : 
No — now I can remember well, 

'T was the soil month of sun and shower ; 
A thousand times I 've heard her tell 

The season, and the very hour ; 
For now, v^^hene'er the tear-drops start, 

As if to ease its throbbing pain. 
She leans her head upon my heart 

And tells the very tale again. 

'Tis something of a moon, that beamed 

Upon her weak and trembling form. 
And one beside, on whom she leaned, 

That scarce had stronger heart or arm — 
Of souls united there until 

Death the last ties of life shall part. 
And a fond kiss whose rapturous thrill 

Still vibrates softly in her heart. 
It is an era strange, yet sweet, 

Which every woman's thought has known, 
When first her young heart learns to beat 

To the soft music of a tone — 
That era when she first begins 

To know, what love alone can teach, 
That there are hidden depths within. 

Which friendship never yet could reach : 
And all earth has of bitter wo, 

Is Ught beside her hopeless doom, 
Who sees love's first sweet star below 

Fade slowly till it sets in gloom : 
There may be heavier grief to move 

The heart that mourns an idol dead. 
But one who weeps a living love 

Has surely little left to dread. 

I can not tell why love so true 

As theirs, should only end in gloom — 

Some mystery that I never knew 
Was woven darkly with their doom : 



I only know their dream was vain. 

And that they woke to find it past. 
And when by chance they met again, 

It was not as they parted last. 
His was not faith that lightly dies, 

For truth and love as clearly shone 
In the blue heaven of his soft eyes. 

As the dark midnight of her own : 
And therefore Heaven alone can tell 

What are his living visions now ; 
But hers — the eye can read too well 

The language written on her brow. 

In the soft twilight, dim and sweet. 

Once, watching by the lattice pane, 
She listened for his coming feet. 

For whom she never looked in vain : 
Then hope shone brightly on her brow, 

That had not learned its after fears — 
Alas ! she can not sit there now. 

But that her dark eyes fill with tears ! 
And every woodland pathway dim. 

And bower of roses cool and sweet, 
That speak of vanished days and hun. 

Are spots forbidden to her feet. 
No thought within her bosom stirs. 

But wakes some feeling dark and dread: 
God keep thee from a doom like hers — 

Of living when the hopes are dead ! 



BEARING LIFE'S B0RDENS. 

Oh, there are moments for us here, when, seeing 
Life's inequalities, and wo, and care. 

The burdens laid upon our mortal being 
Seem heavier than the human heart can bear. 

For there are ills that come without foreboding. 
Lightnings that fall before the thunders roll, 

And there are festering cares, that, by corroding. 
Eat silently their way into the soul. 

And for the evils that our race inherit. 
What strength is given us that we may endure 1 

Surely the God and Father of our spirit 
Sends not afflictions which he can not cure ! 

No ! there is a Physician, there is healing, 
And light that beams upon life's darkest day. 

To him whose heart is right with God, revealing 
The wisdom and the justice of his way. 

Not him who never lifts his thought to Heaven, 

Remembering whence his blessings have been sent; 
Nor yet to him are strength and wisdom given, 

Whose days with profitless scourge and fast are 
spent : 
But him whose heart is as a temple holy, 

Whose prayer in every act of right is said — 
He shall be strong, whether lile's ills wear slowly, 

Or come like lightning down upon his head : 

He who for his own good or for another 
Ready to pray, and strive, and labor, stands^ 

Who loves his God by loving well his brother, 
And worships him by keeping his commands. 



ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 



381 



RESOLVES. 

I HAVE said I would not meet hira — 

Have I said the words in vain 1 
Sunset burns along the hill-tops, 

And I 'm waiting here again ; 
But my promise is not broken, 

Though I stand where once we met; 
When I hear his coming footsteps, 

I can fly him even yet. 

We have stood here oft wlien evening 

Deepened slowly o'er the plain, 
But I mast not, dare not, meet him 

In the shadows here again ; 
For I could not turn away and 

Leave that pleading look and tone. 
And the sorrow of his parting 

Would be bitter as my own. 

In the dim and distant ether 

The first star is shining through, 
And another, and another ! 

Trembles softly in the blue ; 
Should I linger but one moment 

In the shadows where I stand, 
I shall see the vine-leaves parted 

With a quick, impatient hand. 

But I will not wait his coming — 

He will surely come once more ; 
Though I said I would not meet him, 

I have told him so before ; 
And he knows the stars of evening 

See me standing here again — 
Oh, he surely will not leave me 

Now to watch and wait in vain ! 

'T is the hour — the time of meeting — 

In one moment 't will be past ; 
And last night he stood beside me — 

Was that blessed time the last 'i 
I could better bear my sorrow. 

Could I live that parting o'er : 
Oh, I wish I had not told him 

That I would not come once more I 

Could that have been the night-wind 

Moved the branches thus apart ? 
Did I hear a coming footstep. 

Or the beating of my heart 1 
No — I hear him, I can see him, 

And my weak resolves are vain : 
I will fly, but to his bosom. 

And to leave it not again ! 



LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 

Din we think of the light and sunshine. 

Of the blessings left us still. 
When we sit and ponder dai'kly 

And blindly o'er life's ill, 
How should we dispel the shadows 

Of still and deep despair. 
And lessen the weight of anguish 

Which every heart must bear ] 



The clouds may rest on the present, 

And sorrow on days that are gone, 
But no night is so utterly cheerless 

That we may not look for the dawn ; 
And there is no human being 

With so wholly dark a lot. 
But the heart, by turning the picture, 

May find some sunny spot : 

For, as in the days of winter, 

When the snowdrifts whiten the hill. 
Some birds in the an- will flutter. 

And warble, to cheer us still : 
So, if we would hark to the music, 

Some hope with a starry wing. 
In the days of our darkest sorrow, 

Win sit in the heart and sing. 



THE WIFE OF BESSIERES.* 

The pathway where the sun went down, 

Shone faintly in the western arch. 
As tranquil Eve was leading on 

Her silent armies in their march : 
Bright hosts of onward moving stars 

Were in the orient climbing higher. 
Where, first among his brethren. Mars 

Burned redly as a beam of fire : 

In the wide plain that lay below 

The dark Bohemian mountain heights, 
But lately, from the tents of snow. 

Streamed rudJily the camp fire's Ughts. 
But now the grass waves quietly. 

The mountains watch that place alone, 
And the cool night dews silently 

To leaf and flower came stealing down. 

Yet in that valley, lone and damp, 

A form is gliding to and fro. 
And, by the glimmer of her lamp, 

I see a mourner's face of wo : 
That beacon through the night bums on 

The pale face lingering sweetly nigh. 
And fades not when the feet of dawn 

Shake out the diamonds from the sky. 

'T is she, whose noble lover died 

Ere the red morn of Lutzen shone — 
The duke of Istria's mournful bride 

Still watching by his tomb alone. 
Vain weeper, wherefore linger on ] 

Thy locks with heavy dews are wet — 
The feet that to the dead go down. 

Ne'er came to meet the faithful yet. 

Oh, woman's love hath fondly turned 

To those in dungeons, deep and dark, 
And beacon fires have steadily burned 

To light a long-expected bark : 
But what aflSsction, true and tried. 

Which death can shake not, nor remove. 
Is hers, who feeds the lamp beside 

The sepulchre of buried love. 

* The king of .Saxony erected a monument over Be9- 
sieres, where he fell, and over it his disconsolate widow 
kept a lamp burning, uiyht and day, for a year. 



382 



ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 



THE FOLLOWERS OF CHRIST. 

What were Thy teachings 1 thou who haJst not 

In all this weary earth to lay thy head ; [where 
Thou who wert made the sins of men to bear, 

And break with pubUcans thy daily bread! 
Turning irom Nazareth, the despised, aside, 

And dwelling in the cities by the sea, 
What were thy words to those who sat and dried 

Their nets upon the rocks of GaUlee 1 
Didst thou not teach thy followers here below, 

Patience, long-suffering, charity, and love ; 
To he forgiving, and to anger slow. 

And perfect, like our blessed Lord above 1 
And who were they, the called and chosen then. 

Through all the world, teaching thy truth, to go 1 
Were they the rulers, and the chiefest men. 

The teachers in the synagogue t Not so ! 
Makers of tents, and fishers by the sea, 
These only left their all to follow thee. 
And even of the twelve whom thou didst name 

Apostles of thy holy word to be, 
One was a devil; and the one who came 

With loudest boasts of faith and constancy, 
He was the first thy warning who forgot. 
And said, with curses, that he knew thee not ! 
Yet were there some who in thy son-ows were 

To thee even as a brother and a fi-iend. 
And women, seeking out the sepulchre. 

Were true and faithful even to the end : 
And some there were who kept the living faith 
Through persecution even unto death. 
But, Savior, since that dark and awful day 

When the dread temple's veil was rent in twain, 
And while the noontide brightness fled away, 

The gaping earth gave up her dead again ; 
Tracing the many generations down. 

Who have professed to love thy holy ways, 
Through the long centuries of the world's renown. 

And through the terrors of her darker days — 
Where are thy followers, and what deeds of love 
Their deep devotion to thy precepts prove 1 
Turn to the time when o'er the green hills came 

Peter the Hermit, from the cloister's gloom, 
Telling his followers in the Savior's name 

To arm and battle for the sacred tomb ; , 
Not with the Christian armor — perfect faith. 

And love which purifies the soul from dross — 
B ut holding in one hand the sword of death, 

And in the other lifting up the cross. 
He roused the sleeping nations up to feel 
All the blind ardor of unholy zeal ! 
With the bright banner of the cross unfurled. 

And chanting sacred hymns, they marched, and 
They made a pandemonium of the world, [yet 

More dark than that where fallen angels met : 
The singing of their bugles could not drown 
The bitter curses of the hunted down ! 
Richard, the lion-hearted, brave in war, 

Tancred, and Godfrey, of the fearless band, 
Though earthly fame had spread their names afar, 

What were they but the scourges of the land 1 
And worse th an these, were men whose touch would 
Pollution, vowed to lives of sanctity ! [be 



And in thy name did men in other days 

Construct the inquisition's gloomy cell. 
And kindle persecution to a blaze, 

Likest of all things to the fires of hell ! 
Ridley and Latimer — I hear their song 

In calling up each martyr's glorious name, 
And Cranmer, with the praises on his tongue 

When his red hand dropped down amid the flame ! 
Merciful God ! and have these things been done. 
And in the name of thy most holy Son ? 
Turning from other lands grown old in crime, 

To this, where Freedom's root is deeply set, 
Surely no stain upon its folds sublime 

Dims the escutcheon of our glory yet ! 
Hush ! came there not a sound upon the air 

Like captives moaning fi'om their native shore — 
Woman's deep wail of passionate despair 

For home and kindred seen on earth no more ! 
Yes, standing in the market-place I see 

Our weaker brethren coldly bought and sold, 
To be in hopeless, dull captivity. 

Driven forth to toil like cattle from the fold : 
And hark ! the lash, and the despairing cry 

Of the strong man in perilous agony ! 
And near me I can hear the heavy sound 

Of the dull hammer borne upon the air : 
Is a new city rising from the ground t 

What hath the artisan constructed there 1 
'T is not a palace, nor an humble shed ; 

'T is not a holy temple reared by hands — 
No ! — lifting up its dark and bloody head 

Right in the face of Heaven, the scaffold stands 
And men, regardless of " Thou shalt not kill," 

That plainest lesson in the Book of Light, 
Even firom the very altars tell us still. 

That evil sanctioned by the law is right ! 
And preach, in tones of eloquence sublime. 
To teach mankind that murder is not crime ! 
And is there nothing to redeem mankind ? — 

No heart that keeps the love of God within t 
Is the whole world degraded, weak, and blind. 

And darkened by the leprous scales of sin ^ 
No, we will hope that some, in meekness sweet, 
Still sit, with trusting Mary, at thy feet. 
For there are men of God, who faithful stand 

On the far ramparts of our Zion's wall. 
Planting the cross of Jesus in some land 

That never listened to salvation's call. 
And there are some, led by philanthropy, 

Men of the feeling heart and daring mind. 
Who fain would set the hopeless free. 

And raise the weak and fallen of mankind. 
And there are many in life's humblest way. 

Who tread like angels on a path of light. 
Who warn the sinful when they go astray, 

And point the erring to the way of right ; 
And the meek beauty of such lives will teach 
More than the eloquence of man can preach. 

And, blessed Savior ! by thy life of trial. 
And by thy death, to free the world from sin. 

And by the hope that man, though weak and vile. 
Hath something of divinity within — 

Still will we trust, though sin and crime be met, 

To see thy holy precepts triumph yet ! 



ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 



383 



SYMPATHY. 

In the same beaten channel still have run 
The blessed streams of human sympathy ; 

And though I know this ever hath been done, 
The why and wherefore I could never see : 

Why some such sorrow for their griefs have won, 
And some, unpitied, bear their misery, 

Are mysteries, which, thinking o'er and o'er, 

Has left me nothing wiser than before. 

What bitter tears of agony have flowed 
O'er the sad pages of some old romance ! [glowed. 

How Beauty's cheek beneath those drops has 
That dimmed the sparkling lustre of her glance, 

And on some lovesick maiden is bestowed. 
Or some rejected, hapless knight, perchance, 

All her deep sympathies, until her moans 

Stifle the nearer sound of Uving groans ! 

Oh, the deep soitow for their sufferings felt, [prove 
Where is found something — " better days" — to 

What heart above their downfall will not melt, 
Who in a " higher circle" once could move : 

For such, mankind have ever freely dealt 
Out the full measure of their pitying love, 

Because they witnessed, in their wretchedness, 

Their friends grow fewer, and their fortunes less. 

But for some humble peasant girl's distress, 
Some real being left to stem the tide, 

Who saw her young heart's wealth of tenderness 
Betrayed, and trampled on, and flung aside — 

Who seeks her out, to make her sorrows less 1 
What noble lady o'er her tale hath cried 1 

None ! for the records of such humble grief 

Obtain not human pity — scarce belief. 

And as for their distress, who from the first 
Have had no fortune and no friends to fail — 

Those who in poverty were born and nursed : 
For such, by men, are placed without the pale 

Of sympathy — since they are deemed the worst 
Who are the humblest ; and if want assail 

And bring them harder toil, 'tis only said 

" They have been used to labor for their bread !" 

Oh, the unknown, unpitied thousands found 
Huddled together, hid from human sight 

By fell disease or gnawing famine — bound 
To some dim, crowded garret, day and night. 

Or in unwholesome cellars under ground. 
With scarce a breath of air or ray of light — 

Hunger and rags, and labor ill repaid : 

These are the things that ask our tears and aid. 

And these ought not to be : it is not well, 
Here in this land of Christian liberty. 

That honest worth or hopeless want should dwell 
Unaided by our care and sympathy : 

And is it not a burning shame to tell 
We have no means to check such misery, 

When wealth from out our treasury freely flows. 

To wage a deadly warfare with our foes ! 

It is all wrong : yet men begin to deem 
The days of darkest gloom are nearly done — 

A something, like the first daylight beam 
That heralds with the coming of the dawn, 



Breaks on the sight. Oh, if it be no dream. 

How shall we haste that blessed era on : 
For there is need that on men's hearts should fall 
A spirit that shall sympathize with all. 



SONG OF THE HEART. 

Thet may tell for ever of worlds of bloom, 
Beyond the skies and beyond the tomb — 
Of the sweet repose and the rapture there. 
That are not found in a world of care : 
But not to me can the present seem 
Like a foolish tale or an idle dream. 

Oh, I know that the bowers of heaven are fair. 
And I know that the waters of life are there ; 
But I do not long for their happy flow, 
While there burst such fountains of bliss below, 
And I would not leave, for the rest above, 
The faithful bosom of trusting love ! 

There are angels here : they are seen the while, 
In each love-lit brow and each gentle smile ; 
There are seraph voices that meet the ear, 
In the kindly tone and the word of cheer ; 
And light, such light as they have above. 
Beams on us here from the eyes of love ! 

Yet, when it cometh my time to die, 
I would turn from this bright world willingly ; 
Though, even then, would the thoughts of this 
Tinge every dream of that land of bliss : 
And I fain would lean on the loved for aid. 
Nor walk alone through the vale and shade. 

And if 'tis mine, till life's changes end. 
To guard the heart of one faithful friend, 
Whatever the trials of earth may be. 
On the peacefiil shore or the restless sea — 
In a palace home or the wilderness — 
There is heaven for me in a world like this. 



THE PRISONER'S LAST NIGHT. 

The last red gold had melted from the sky. 
Where the sweet sunset Ungered soft and warm. 

And starry Night was gathering silently 
The jewelled mantle round her regal form ; 

While the invisible fingers of the breeze 

Shook the young blossoms lightly from the trees. 

Yet were their breaking hearts beneath the stars, 
Though the hushed earth lay smiling in the light. 

And the dull fetters and the prison bars 
Saw bitter tears of agony that night. 

And heard such burning words of love and truth 

As wring the life-drops from the heart of youth. 

For he, whom men relentless doomed to die, 
Parted with one who loved him till the last ; 

With many a vow of faith and constancy 
The long, long watches of the night were passed : 

Till heavily and slow, the prison door 

Swung back, and — told them thattheirhourwaso'er. 

'T was his last night on earth ! and God alone 

Can tell the anguish of that stricken one. 
Fettered in darkness to the dungeon stone, 



384 



ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 



And doomej to perish with the rising sun : 
And she, whose faith tlirough all was vainly true. 
Her heart was broken — and she perished too. 

And will this win an ening brother back 
To the sweet paths of pleasantness and peace 1 
. " While crimes are punished but by crimes more 
black," 
Will ever wickedness and sorrow cease t 
No ! crime will never fail to scourge the land. 
So long as blood is on her ruler's hand. 

And oh, how long will hearts in sin and pride 
Reject His blessed precepts, who of yore 

Taught men forgiveness on the mountain side. 
And spoke of love and mercy by the shore ? 

How long will power, with such despotic sway, 

Trample unfriended weakness in its way ! 

Hasten, Lord of light ! that glorious time 
When man no more shall spurn thy wise command, 

Filhng the earth with wretchedness and crime. 
And making guilt a plague-spot on the land : 

Hasten the time, that blood no more shall cry 

Unceasingly for vengeance to the sky ! 



MEMORIES. 

" She loved me, but ahe left me." 

Mf.mobies on memories ! to my soul again 

There come such dreams of vanished love and bliss 
That my wrung heart, though long inured to pain. 

Sinks with the fulness of its wretchedness : 
Thou, dearer far than all the world beside ! 

Thou, who didst listen to my love's first vow — 
Once I had fondly hoped to call thee bride : 

Is the dream over ? comes the awakening now 1 
And is this hour of wretchedness and tears 
The only guerdon for my wasted years ] 

And I did love thee — when by stealth we met 

In the sweet evenings of that summer time, 
M'hose pleasant memory lingers with me yet, 

As the remembrance of a better clime 
Might haunt a fallen angel. And oh, thou — 

Thou who didst turn away and seek to bind 
Thy heart from breaking — thou hast felt ere now 

A heart like thine o'ermastereth the mind : 
Affection's power is stronger than thy will-;— 
Ah, thou didst love me, and thou lovest me still. 

My heart could never yet be taught to move 

With the calm even pulses that it should : 
Turning away from those that it should love, 

And loving whom it should not, it hath wooed 
Beauty forbidden — I may not forget ; 

And thou, oh thou canst never cease to feel ; 
But time, which hath not changed affection yet, 

Hath taught at least one lesson — to conceal ; 
So none but thou, who see my smiles, shall know 
The silent bleeding of the heart below. 



"EaUAL TO EITHER FORTUNE." 

" EauAL to either fortune !" This should bo 
The motto of the perfect man and true — 

Striving to stem the billow fearlessly, 
And keeping steadily the right in view, 



Whether it be his lot in life to sail 
Before an adverse or a prosperous gale. 

Man fearlessly his voice for truth should raise. 
When truth would force its way in deed or word ; 

Whether for him the popular voice of praise, 
Or the cold sneer of unbelief is heard : 

Like the First Martyr, when his voice arose 

Distinct above the hisses of Iris foes. 

" Equal to either fortune," Heaven designs, 
Whether his destiny be repose or toil — 

Whether the sun upon his palace shines, 
Or calls him forth to plant the furrowed soil : 

So shall he find life's blessings freely strewn 

Around the peasant's cottage as the throne. 

Man should dare all things which he knows are right. 
And fear to do no act save what is wrong ; 

But, guided safely by his inward light, 
And with a permanent belief, and strong, 

In Him who is our Father and our friend, 

He should walk steadfastly unto the end. 

Ready to live or die, even in that day 
Which man from childhood has been taught to fear, 

When, putting off its cumbrous weight of clay, 
The spirit enters on a nobler sphere : 

And he will be, whose life was rightly passed, 

" Equal to either fortune" at the last. 



COMING HOME. 

How long it seems since first wc heard 

The cry of " land in sight !" 
Om- vessel surely never sailed 

So slowly til! to-night. 
When we discerned the distant hills, 

The sun was scarcely set, 
And, now the noon of night is passed. 

They seem no nearer yet. 

Where the blue Rhine reflected back 

Each frowning castle wall. 
Where, in the forest of the Hartz, 

Eternal shadows fall — 
Or where the yellow Tiber flowed 

By the old hills of Rome — 
I never felt such restlessness, 

Such longing for our home. 

Dost thou remember, oh, my friend, 

When we beheld it last. 
How shadows from the setting sun 

Upon our cot were cast 1 
Three summer-times upon its walls 

Have shone for us in vain ; 
But oh, we're hastening homeward now. 

To leave it not again. 

There, as the last star dropped away 

From Night's imperial brow. 
Did not our vessel " round the point" ? 

The land looks nearer now I 
Yes, as the first faint beams of day 

Fell on our native shore. 
They 're dropping anchor m the bay. 

We 're home, we 're home once more ! 



ALICE AND PHCEBE CAREY. 



385 



THE CHRISTIAN WOMAN. 

Oh, teautiful as morning in those hours, 
When, as her pathway lies along the hills, 

Her golden fingers wake the dewy flowers, 
And softly touch the waters of the rills. 

Was she who walked more faintly day by day, 

Till silently she perished by the way. 

It was not hers to know that perfect heaven 
Of passionate love returned by love as deep ; 

Not hers to sing the cradle-song at even, 
Watching the beauty of her babe asleep ; 

" Mother and brethren" — these she had not known. 

Save such as do the Father's will alone. 

Yet found she something still for which to live — 
Hearths desolate, where angel-like she came. 

And " little ones" to whom her hand could give 
A cup of water in her Master's name ; 

And breaking hearts to bind away from death, 

With the soft hand of pitying love and faith. 

She never won the voice of popular praise. 
But, counting earthly triumph as but dross. 

Seeking to keep her Savior's perfect ways. 
Bearing in the still path his blessed cross, 

She made her life, while with us here she trod, 

A consecration to the will of God ! 

And she hath lived and labored not in vain : 
Through the deep prison cells her accents thrill, 

And the sad slave leans idly on his chain. 
And hears the music of her singing still; 

While little children, with their innocent praise. 

Keep freshly in men's hearts her Christian ways. 

And what a beautiful lesson she made known — 
The whiteness of her soul sin could not dim ; 

Ready to lay down on God's altar stone 
The dearest treasure of her life for him. 

Her flame of sacrifice never, never waned. 

How could she live and die so self-sustained 1 

For friends supported not her parting soul, 
And whispered words of comfort, kind and sweet, 

When treading onward to that final goal, 
Where the still bridegroom waited for her feet ; 

Alone she walked, yet with a fearless tread, 

Down to Death's chamber, and his bridal bed ! 



DEATH SCENE. 

Dting, still slowly dying. 

As the hours of night rode by. 
She had lain since the light of sunset 

Was red on the evening sky : 
Till after the middle watches. 

As we softly near her trod, 
When her soul from its prison fetters 

Was loosed by the hand of God. 

One moment her pale lips trembled 
With the triumph she might not tell, 

As the sight of the life immortal 
On her spirit's vision fell ; 

Then the look of rapture faded. 



And the beautiful smile was faint. 
As that in some convent picture, 
On the face of a dying saint. 

And we felt in the lonesome midnight. 

As we sat by the silent dead. 
What a light on the path going downward 

The feet of the righteous shed ; 
When we thought how with faith unshrinking 

She came to the Jordan's tide, 
And taking the hand of the Savior, 

Went up on the heavenly side. 



LOVE AT THE GRAVE. 

Remembrancer of nature's prime. 
And herald of her fading near. 

The last month of the summer time 
Of leaves and flowers is with us here. 

More eloquent than lip can preach, 
To every heart that hopes and fears, 

What solemn lesson does it teach. 
Of the quick passage of our years. 

To me it brings sad thoughts of one, 
Who in the summer's fading bloom 

Bright from the arms of love went down 
To the dim silence of the tomb. 

How often since has spring's soft shower 
Revived the life in nature's breast. 

And the sweet herb and tender flower 
Have been renewed above her rest ! 

How many summer times have told 
To mortal hearts their rapid flight. 

Since first this heap of yellow mould 
Shut out her beauty from my sight. 

Since first, to love's sweet promise true, 

My feet beside her pillow trod. 
Till year by year the pathway grew 

Deeper and deeper in the sod. 

Now these neglected roses tell 

Of no kind hand to tend them nigh — 

Oh God ! I have not kept so well 
My faith as in the years gone by ! 

But here to-day my step returns. 

And kneeling where these willows wave, 

As the soft flame of sunrise burns 

Down through the dim leaves to thy grave- 

I cry, forgive, that I should prove 

Forgetful of thy memory ; 
Forgive me, that a living love 

Once came between my soul and thee ! 

For the weak heart that vainly yearned 
For human love its life to cheer, 

Baffied and bleeding, has returned 
To stifle down its crying here. 

For, steadfast still, thy faith to me 

Was one which earth could not estrange ; 

And, lost one ! where the angels be, 
I know aflection may not change ! 



/' 



/ 



MARY LOCKHART LAWSON. 



Miss Lawson is a native of Philadelphia. 
Her father, the late Alexander Lawson, of 
that city, was a countryman, friend, and in- 
structor of Wilson, the ornithologist, and in 
the life of that remarkable man is frequently 
referred to for the most admirable traits of 
character. He was an artist of such excel- 
lence that Lucien Bonaparte was accustomed 
to speak of him as the master of all the en- 
gravers in natural history. 

Miss Lawson 's poems have appeared prin- 
cipally since 1842, in the Knickerbocker and 



in Graham's Magazine. She has occasion- 
ally written with considerable felicity in the 
Scottish dialect, but I think her English po- 
ems best, notwithstanding her perfect and 
loving familiarity with the language and the 
literature of the fatherland of her parents. 
They are characterized by a pleasing fancy, 
and frequently by tenderness of feeling, and 
a minute and artistlike truthfulness of rural 
description. Some of her religious pieces 
are graceful and fervid expressions of trust 
and devotion. 



THE BANISHED LOVER. 

"Cliaqiie pas tiiii m'eloifpioit de voua, Eeparoit mun corps de mon 
ame, et me Jonnoit iin sentiment atiticipe de la mott, Je voulois vouz 
decriie te que Je verrois. Vaiaprojet! Je n'ai rein ver que vouz." 

Si. Frcux. 

Thet tell me of the prospect I survey, 

They speak of streams, and skies of deepest blue, 

That shine o'er fertile vales and floweiy meads ; 

Of mountain clefts, with torrents dashing through : 

It maj' be so ; for Nature to the gay 

Is ever beautiful — it charms not me ! 

I only feel my soul remains afar — 

My passion-clouded eyes see naught save thee. 

The tender, b'.issfiil thoughts that fill my soul, 
Eonnd by mine oath to thee, I fain would quell ; 
For I have promised, dear one ! for thy sake, 
To yield no more to love-enrapturing spell : 
I would obey — like other mortals seem ; 
Bear with my fate, and brave reality : 
But shrinking from the wretchedness it brings, 
I cling to visions that are full of thee. 

I know that we must part : but do not prove 

Too pitiless, beloved ! nor urge too far 

Tile sufferings of a grieved and tortured heart. 

Where love and honor hold perpetual war : 

I go at thy command ; but can I join 

A dreai7 world, wlicre thou art naught to me ■■ 

No ! better far in solitude to dwell, 

And cheer its lonely hours with dreams of thee. 

Yet oft will memory paint one happy scene. 
One moment fraught with ecstasy of bliss, 
When, thrilling with the soft clasp of thy hand, 
My lips met thine in one long glowing kiss : 
Ah, fatal gift ! that was our parting doom — 
How wert thou shadowed by Fate's stern decree I 
Alas I that clouds of sadness should have dimmed 
The first, the only boon of love from thee ! 



BELIEVE IT. 

If thy heart whispers that I love thee still, 

Yet Uving on a memory of the past, 
Or that mine eyes with tender tear-drops fill. 

As o'er Hope's rmned page my glance is east — 
That oft thy name is blended with my prayer, 

Thine image mingled with the morning's light. 
That sleep, which drowns all wakmg dreams of care, 

But wafts thy softened shadow to my sight — 
Believe it. 

If when thou dost recall that vine-clad grove, [ding, 

The moonbeams fi lied withcheckcred light and sha- 
Where first we breathed ourtremblingvowsof love, 

And lingered till the stars' soft rays were fading, 
Thy fancy paints me wandering sad and slow 

Through those dim paths that once thy footstep 
With deej) regrets and sighs of lonely wo, [pressed 

That find no echo in thine altered bi-east — 
Believe it. 

Though when we meet, I school my downcast eye 

And faltering lip to speak a careless greeting. 
Or mid the crowd in silence pass thee by. 

Lest I betray my heart's unquiet beating : 
'Tis that no eye save thine shall ever see 

My soul gush forth in yearning to thine own. 
Or coldly trace the feelings felt for thee. 

And read the love revealed m look and tone — 
Believe it. 

Wronged b}' thine anger, prized perchance no more, 

From me undying thought thou canst not sever. 
Still may I trust to meet thee on that shore 

Where pure affection lights the soul for ever : 
Though earthly hope in meekness I resign. 

E'en while my heart's full tenderness revealing. 
Remember, if one doubt arise in thine. 

These words of truth in bitter tears I 'm sealing : 
Believe it ! 



MARY L. LAWSON. 



387 



THE HAUNTED HEART. 

'Tis true he ever lingers at her side, 

But mark the wandering glances of his eye : 
A lover near a fond and plighted hride, 

With less of love than sorrow in his sigh ! 
And well it is for her, that gentle maid, 

Who loves too well, too fervent!}', for fears ; 
She deems not her devotion is repaid 

With deep repinings o'er life's early years. 

For oft another's image fills his hreast. 

E'en when he breathes to her love's tender vow ; 
While her soft hand within his own is prest, 

And timid blushes mantle her young brow, 
Fond memory whispers of the dreamy past, 

Its hopes and joys, its agony and tears ; 
In vain from out his soul he strives to cast 

One shadowy form — the love of early years. 

Ne'er from his heart the vision fades away : 

Amid the crowd, in silence, and alone. 
The stars by night, the clear blue sky by day. 

Bring to his mind the happiness now flown ; 
A tone of song, the warbling of the birds, 

The simplest thing that memory endears. 
Can still recall the form, the voice, the words. 

Of her, the best beloved of early years. 

He dares not seek the spot where first they met. 

Too dangerous for his only hope of rest — 
His strong but fruitless effort to forget 

Those scenes that wake deep sorrow in his breast ; 
And yet the quiet beauty of the grove 

All plainly to his restless mind appears. 
Where, as the sun declined, he loved to rove 

With her, the first fond dream of early years. 

He sees the stream beside whose brink they strayed, 

Engi-ossed in converse sweet of coming hours. 
And watched the rippling currents as they played, 

In ebb and flow, upon the banks of flowers : 
And the old willow, 'neath whose spreading shade 

She owned her love — again her voice he hears, 
He starts — alas ! the vision only fades 

To leave regretful pangs for early years. 

It was his idle vanity that changed 

The pure, deep feelings of her trusting heart. 
Whose faithful love not even in thought had ranged. 

But worshipped him, from all the world apart : 
Now cold and altered is her beaming eye. 

And no fond hope his aching bosom cheers, 
That she will shed one tear, or breathe one sigh, 

For him she loved so well in early years. 

He feels she scorns him with a bitter scorn : 
He questions not the justice of his fate, 

For long had she his selfish caprice borne. 
And wounded pride first taught her how to hate. 



Oh, ye who cast away a heart's deep love. 

Remember, ere affection disappears. 
That keen reproachful throbs your soul may move 

Like his who lives to mom'n life's early years ! 



EVENING THOUGHTS. 

The evening star, with mild yet radiant light. 

Shines clearly 'neath the young moon's pallid crest. 
The last faint gleam of crimson sunset fades 

In mellowed hues of brightness from tlie west ; 
Soft shadows fall upon the mountain's brow. 

And steal with gradual pace o'er wood and stream ; 
A balmy stillness floats upon the earth. 

And life is peaceful as a tranquil dream. 

God, whose mantle shades this lovely world. 

And leaves a ray of glorious beauty round ; 
In that far home where angels spread their wings. 

What infinite perfection must abound. 
What visions of ecstatic, wondrous bliss. 

In thy sublime, thy awful presence dwell. 
When in this sphere, all dimmed by sin and pain. 

Thy gifts of light and love words may not tell ! 

Would that my soul each wayward pulse could still. 

That I might know thee, Father, as thou art — 
That I within thy paths of peace might walk. 

And take my place amid the " pure in heart ;" 
Then might I hope, as death's dark clouds drew near, 

Amid the deepening gloom thy smile to see. 
But oft my wandering footsteps guide me far 

From out the way that leads alone to thee. 

What if we view upon the brink of wo, 

A dazzling gleam steal through the gates of heaven, 
And feel at once, while close its pearly doors. 

How long its entrance to our steps was given, 
Till, in the utter madness of our souls. 

Our last faint lingering hope in silence died. 
While at the moment of our dreadful doom. 

Perchance, we basked in worldliness and pride. 

And while in folly's gilded courts I stand. 

Is this my fate 1 Ah, no ! by these sad tears, 
Plead for me, Jesus, meek and holy one. 

For thou hast shared earth's agonies and fears ; 
Thou seest the struggles of my changing soul — 

Oh, let its darker thoughts of grief depart. 
And hear my prayer, when, kneehng low, I crave 

Thy words of truth may reach my troubled heait. 

Devoid of merit, what have I to boast, 

When man's best virtues are unworthy thee ? 
Yet in thy mercy will I place my trust, 

And in the Cross my hope and promise see ; 
And though unresting conscience sternly tells 

Of talents unemployed and wasted powers. 
Lend me thine aid, and to thy service. Lord, 

I'll dedicate the remnant of my hours. 



MARIA LOWELL. 



Makia White, the daughter of an opulent 
citizen of Watertown, Massachusetts, in 1844 
was married to James Russell Lowell, and 
for her genius, taste, and many admirable per- 
sonal qualities, she is worthy to be the wife 



of that fine poet and true hearted man. She 
has published several elegant translations 
from the German, and a large number of origi- 
nal poems of the imagination, some of which 
illustrate questions of morals and humanity. 



JESUS AND THE DOVE. 

with patient liand Jesus in claj' once wrought, 
And made a snowy dove that upward flew. 

DeHr child, from all things draw some holy tliougbt, 
That, like his dove, they may fly upward too. 

Maiiy, the mother good and mild, 

Went forth one summer's day. 
That Jesus and his comrades all 

In meadows green might play. 
To find the brightest, freshest flowers, 

They search the meadows round, 
They twined them all into a wreath 

And little Jesus crowned. 
Weary with play, they came at last 

And sat at Mary's feet, 
While Jesus asked his mother dear 

A story to repeat. 
" And we," said one, " from out this clay, 

Will make some little birds ; 
So shall we all sit quietly, 

And heed the mother's words." 
Then Mary, in her gentle voice. 

Told of"a little child 
Who lost her way one dark, dark night, 

Upon a dreary wild ; 
And how an angel came to her. 

And made all bright around. 
And took the trembling little one 

From oft" the damp, hard ground ; 
And how he bore her in his arms 

Up to the blue so far. 
And how he laid her fast asleep, 

Down in a silver star. 
The children sit at Mary's feet, 

But not a word they say. 
So busily their fingers work 

To mould the birds of clay. 
But now the clay that Jesus held. 

And turned unto the light. 
And moulded with a patient touch. 

Changed to a perfect white. 
And slowly grew within his hands 

A fair and gentle dove. 
Whose eyes unclose, whose wings unfold. 

Beneath his look of love. 
The children drop their birds of clay, 

And by his side they stand. 
To look upon the wondrous dove 

He holds within his hand. 



And when he bends and softly breathes, 

Wide are the wings outspread ; 
And when he bends and breathes again, 

It hovers round his head. 
Slowly it rises in the air 

Before their eager eyes, 
And, with a white and steady wing, 

Higher and higher flies. 
The children all stretch forth their arms 

As if to draw it down : 
" Dear Jesus made the little dove 

From out the clay so brown — 
" Canst thou not hve with us below. 

Thou little dove of clay, 
And let us hold thee in our hands, 

And feed thee every day ? 
" The little dove it hears us not, 

But higher still doth fly ; 
It could not live with us below — 

Its home is in the sky." 
Mary, who silently saw all — 

That mother true and mild — 
Folded her hands upon her breast, 

And kneeled before her child. 



THE MAIDEN'S HARVEST. 

There goeth with the early light 

Across a barren plain. 
One who, with face as morning bright, 

Singeth, " I come again ; 

" And every grain I scatter free 

A hundred fold shall yield. 
Till waveth as a golden sea 

This dark and barren field." 

She casteth seed upon the ground, 
From out her pure white hand. 

And httle winds steal up around 
To bear it through the land. 

She strikes her harp, she sings her song. 
She sings so loud and clear— 

" Arise, arise, ye sleeping throng, 
And bud and blossom here !" 

When o'er the hills she passed away, 
The Spring remembered her. 

And came, with sun and air of May, 
The barren earth to stir. 

n88 



MARIA LOWELL. 389 


And falling dew the spot did love, 


Oh, would like theirs had been my birth : 


And lingered tliere till noon ; 


Then I, without a sigh. 


And winds and rains moved on above 


Might sleep this night through on the earth. 


In softly changing tune. 


To waken in the sky. 


So when the Autumn cometh round, 


^ 


The golden heads bend low, 
And near and nearer to the ground 


THE MORNING-GLORY. 


Their royal beard doth flow. 


We wreathed about our darling's head 


The poor rejoice : in throngs they come 


The morning-glory bright ; 


To reap the dropping grain ; 


Her httle face looked out beneath. 


Their voices rise in busy hum — 


So full of hfe and light. 


" Who, who hath sowed the-plainl 


So lit as with a sunrise, 


" And who hath wrought such bounteous cheer 


That we could only say, 


Where all before was dead^" 


" She is the morning-glory tnie, 


They bless the unseen giver dear 


And her poor types are they." 


Who sent this daily bread. 


So always from that happy time 


With harp in hand, a maiden bright 


We called her by their name. 


Passed slowly by the throng ; 


And very fitting did it seem — 


With face as fair as sunset Ught 


For, sure as morning came. 


The maiden sang her song : 


Behind her cradle bars she smiled 


" In morning time I sowed this plain — 

Blessed the evening be, 
Which gives back every little grain 


To catch the first faint ray. 
As from the trellis smiles the flower 
And opens to the day. 


A hundred fold to me !" 


But not so beautiful they rear 




Their airy cups of blue. 




As turned her sweet eyes to the light, 


SONG. 


Brimmed with sleep's tender dew ; 


Oh, Bird, thou dartest to the sun 


And not so close their tendrils fine 


When morning beams first spring. 


Round their supports are thrown. 


And I, like thee, would swiftly ran, 
As sweetly would I sing ; 


As those dear arms whose outstretched plea 


Clasped all heai-ts to her own. 


Thy burning heart doth draw thee up 


We used to think how she had come, 


Unto the source of fire — 


Even as comes the flower. 


Thou drinkest from its glowing cup. 


The last and perfect added gift 


And quenchest thy desu'e. 


To crown love's morning hour, 


Oh, Dew, thou droppest soil below 


And how in her was imaged forth 


And plastest all the ground ; 


The love we could not say, 


Yet when the noontide comes, I know 


As on the little dewdrops round 


Thou never canst be found. 


Shines back the heart of day. 


I would like thine had been my birth ; 


We never could have thought, God, 


Then I, without a sigh, 


That she must wither up, 


Might sleep the night through on the earth, 


Ahnost before a day was flown, 


To waken in the sky. 


Like the morning-glory's cup ; 


Oh, Clouds, ye little tender sheep. 


We never thought to see her droop 


Pastured in fields of blue, 


Her fair and noble head. 


While moon and stars your fold can keep 


Till she lay stretched before our eyes, 


And gently shepherd you — 


Wilted, and cold, and dead ! 


Let me, too, follow in the train 


The morning-glory's blossoming 


That flocks across the night, 


Will soon be coming round : 


Or lingers on the open plain 


We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves 


With new washed fleeces white. 


Upspringing from the ground ; 


Oh, singing Winds, that wander far, 


The tender things the winter killed 


Yet always seem at home, 


Renew again their birth, 


And freely play 'twixt star and star 


But the glory of our morning 


Along the bending dome — 


Has passed away from earth. 


I often listen to your song, 


Oh, Earth ! in vain our aching eyes 


Yet never hear you say 


Stretch over thy green plain ! 


One word of all the happy worlds 


Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, 


That shine so far away. 


Her spirit to sustain : 


For they are free, ye all are free — 


But up in groves of paradise 


And Bird, and Dew, and Light, 


Full surely we shall see 


Can dart upon the azure sea. 


Our morning-glory beautiful 


And leave me to my night. 


Twine round our dear Lord's knee. 



SARA J. CLARKE. 



Miss Clarke, better known as " Grace 
Greenwood," was born of New England pa- 
rentage, in Onondaga, an agricultural town 
near the citjr of Syracuse, in New York. At 
an early age she was taken to Rochester, 
which is still the residence of her brother and 
my friend of many years, Mr. J. B. Clarke, 
whose success in the law shows how erro- 
neous is the common impression that literary 
studies are incompatible with the devotion to 
business necessary to professional eminence. 
It was probably the displays of his abilities, 
in many graceful poems and prose writings, 
that first led Miss Clarke to the cultivation 
of her tastes and powers in the same field. 
Certainly it was a great advantage to have 
so accomplished a critic, bound by such 
bonds, to watch over her earlier essays, and 
guard her from the dangers to which youth- 
ful authorship is most exposed. In a recent 
letter she says of Rochester : " It was for 
some years my well-beloved home ; here it 
was that I spent my few school-days, and 
received my trifle of book knowledge. It 
was here that woman's life first opened up- 
on me, not as a romance, not as a fairy dream, 
not as a golden heritage of beauty and of 
pleasure, but as a sphere of labor, and care, 
and suffering ; an existence of many efforts 
and few successes, of eager and great aspira- 
tions and slow and partial realizations." 

The parents of Miss Clarke subsequently 
removed to New Brighton, on the Beaver 
river, two miles from its junction with the 
Ohio, and thirty miles below Pittsburg; and 
it was from this beautiful village, in a quiet 
valley, surrounded by the most bold and pic- 
turesque scenery, that in 1844 she wrote the 
first of those sprightly and brilliant letters 
under the signature of " Grace Greenwood," 
by which she was introduced to the literary 
world. They were addressed to General Mor- 
ris and Mr. Willis, then editors of the New 
Mirror, and being published in that miscel- 
lany, the question of their authorship was 
discussed in the journals and in literary cir- 
cles ; they were attributed in turn to the most 
piquant and elegant of our known writers ; 



and curiosity was in no degree lessened by 
intimations that they were by some Diana 
of the West, who, like the ancient goddess, 
inspired the men who saw her with madness, 
and in her chosen groves and by her streams 
used the whip and rein with the boldness and 
grace of Mercury. Such secrets are not ea- 
sily kept, and while the fair magazinist was 
visiting the Atlantic cities, in 1S46, the veil 
was thrown aside and she became known by 
her proper name. She has since been among 
the most industrious and successful of our au- 
thors, and has written with perhaps equal 
facility and felicity in every style — 

" From grave to gay, from lively to severe." 

Her apprehensions are sudden and powerful. 
The lessons of art and the secrets of experi- 
ence have no mists for her quick eyes. Ma- 
ny-sided as Proteus, she yet by an indomita- 
ble will bends all her strong and passionate 
nature to the subject that is present, plucks 
from it whatever it has of mystery, and 
weaves it into the forms of her imagination, 
or casts it aside as the dross of a fruitless 
analysis. Educated in a simple condition 
of society, where conventionalism had no 
authority against truth and reason, and the 
healthful activity of her muid preserved by 
an admirable physical training and develop- 
ment — all her thought is direct and honest, 
and her sentiment vigorous and cheerful. 
But the energy of her character and intelli- 
gence is not opposed to true delicacy. A fee- 
ble understanding, and a nature without the 
elements of quick and permanent decision, 
on the contrary, can not take in the noblest 
forms of real or ideal beauty. It is the sham 
delicacy that is shocked at things actual and 
necessary, that fills the magazines with 
rhymed commonplaces, that sacrifices to a 
prudish nicety all individualism, and is the 
chief bar to sesthetic cultivation and devel- 
opment. She looks with a poet's eye upon 
Nature, and with a poet's soul dares and as- 
pires for the beautiful, as it is tmderstood by 
all the great intelligences whose wisdom 
takes the forms of genius. 
It is as a writer of prose that Miss Clarke 

390 



SARA J. CLARKE. 



391 



is best known, and it may be that tier prose 
compositions have more individuality and il- 
lustrate a wider rana;e of knowledge and re- 



flection than her poems, but the author of 
Ariadne and some of the other pieces here 
quoted has given a name to other ages. 



ARIADNE.* 

DArr.HTER of Crete — how one brief hour, 
E'en in thy young love's early morn, 

Sends storm and darkness o'er thy bower — 
Oh doomed, oh desolate, oh lorn ! 

The breast which pillowed thy fair head, 
Rejects ils burden — and the eye 
Wliich looked its love so earnestly, 

Its last cold glance hath on thee shed ; 

The arms which were thy living zone. 

Around thee closely, warmly thrown. 

Shall others clasp, deserted one ! 

Yet, Ariadne, worthy thou 

Of the dark fate which meets thee now, 

For thou art grovelling in thy wo : 

Arouse thee ! joy to bid him go ; 

For god above, or man below. 

Whose love's warm and impetuous tide 

Cold interest or selfish pride 

Can chill, or stay, or turn aside. 

Is all too poor and mean a tiling 

One shade o'er woman's brow to fling 

Of grief, regret, or fear ; 
To cloud one morning's golden light — 
Disturb the sweet dreams of one night — 
To cause the soft flash of her eye 
To droop one moment mournfully. 

Or tremble with one teai' ! 

'Tis tliou shouldst triumph; thou art free 
From chains which bound thee for a while ; 

This, this the farewell meet for thee. 
Proud princess on that lonely isle : 

" Go — to thine Athens bear thy faithless name ; 

Go, base betrayer of a holy ti'ust ! 
Oh, I could bow me in my utter shame, 

And lay ray crimson forehead in the dust, 
If I had ever loved thee as thou art, 
Folding mean falsehood to my high, true heart ! 

" But thus I loved thee not : before me bowed 

A being glorious in majestic pride. 
And breathed his love, and passionately vowed 

To worship only me, his peerless bride ; 
And this was thou, but crowned, enrobed, entwined. 
With treasures borrowed from my omi rich mind ! 

" I knew thee not a creature of my dreams. 
And my rapt soul went floating into thine ; 

My love around thee poured such halo-beams, 
Hadst thou been true, had made thee all divine. 

And I, too, seemed immortal in my bliss. 

When my glad lip thrilled to thy burning kiss ! 

* The demigod The=eus havin^won the love of Ariadn6, 
daughter of the king of Crete, deserted her on the isle of 

Kaxos. In Miss Bremer's H Family, tlie blind girl 

is described as sinking " Ariadn^ a Nasos," in which Aii- 
adn6 is represented as following Theseus, climbing ahigli 
rock to wjitch his departing vessel, and calling upon hiin 
in her despairing anguish. 



" Shrunken and shrivelled into Theseus now 

Thou standst : behold, the gods have blown away 
The airy crown that glittered on thy brow — 

The gorgeous robes which wrapped thee for a day; 
Aromid thee scarce one fluttering fragment clings — 
A poor lean beggar in all glorious things ! 
*' Kor will I deign to cast on thee my hate — 

It were a ray to tinge with splendor still 
The dull, dim twilight of thy after-fate — 

Thou shalt pass from me like a dream of ill — 
Thy name be but a thing that crouching stole 
Like a poor thief, all noiseless from my soul ! 
" Though thou hast dared to steal the sacred flame 

Fromout that soul's high heaven, she sets thee free; 
Or only chains thee with thy sounding shame : 

Her memory is no Caucasus for thee ; 
And e'en her hovering hate would o'er thee fling 
Too much of glory from its shadowy wing ! 
" Thou thinkst to leave my life a lonely night — 

Ha I it is night all glorious with its stars ! 
Hopes yet miclouded beaming forth their light. 

And free thoughts rolling in their sdver cars ! 
And queenly pride, serene, and cold, and high, 
Moves the Diana of its calm, clear sky ! 
" If poor and humbled thou believest me. 

Mole of a demigod, how bhnd art thou ! 
For I am rich — in scorn to pour on thee : 

And gods shall bend from high Olympus' brow. 
And gaze in wonder on my lofty pride ; 
IVaxos be hallowed, I be deified !" 

On the tall cliff where cold and pale 

Thou watchest his receding sail. 

Where thou, the daughter of a king, 

Wailst like a wind-harp's breaking string, 

Bendst like a weak and wilted flower 

Before a summer evening's shower — 

There shouldst thou rear thy royal form, 

Like a young oak amid the storm, 
Uncrushed, unbowed, uiuriven ! 

Let thy last glance burn through the air, 

And fall far down upon him there. 
Like lightning stroke from heaven ! 

There shouldst thou mark o'er billowy crest 
His white sail flutter and depart; 

No wild fears surging at thy breast, 

No vain hopes quivering round thy heart ; 

And this brief, burning prayer alone 

Leap from thy lips to Jove's high throne : 

" Just Jove ! thy wratchful vengeance stay, 

And speed the traitor on his way ; 

Make vain the siren's silver song, 

Let nereids smile the wave along — 

O'er the wild waters send his bark 

Like a swilt arrow to its mark ! 

Let whirlwinds gather at his back. 

And drive him on his dastard track ; 

Let thy red bolts behind him burn. 

And blast him, shotdd he dare to turn !" 



392 



SARA J. CLARKE. 



DREAMS. 

Thehe was a season when I loved 

The calm and holy night, 
When like yon silvery evening star, 

Just trembling on our sight, 
My spirit through its heaven of dreams 

Went floating forth in light. 

Night is the time when Nature seems 

God's silent worshipper ; 
And ever with a chastened heart 

In unison with her, 
I laid me on my peaceful couch. 

The day's dull cares resigned, 
And let my thoughts fold up like flowers, 

In the twilight of the mind : 

Fast round me closed the shades of sleep, 

And then burst on my sight 
Visions of glory and of love, 

The stars of slumber's night ! 
Dreams, wondrous dreams, which far around 

Did such rich radiance fling, 
As the sudden, first unfurling 

Of a young angel's wing. 

Then sometimes blessed beings came, 

Parting the midnight skies, 
And bore me to their shining homes, 

The bowers of paradise ; 
I felt my worn, world-wearied soul 

Bathed in divine repose — 
My earth-chilled heart in the airs of heaven 

Unfolding as a rose. 

Nor were my dreams celestial all. 

For oft along my way 
Clustered the scenes and joys of home. 

The loves of every day : 
Soft, after angel-music, still 

The voices round my hearth — 
Sweet, after paradisean flowers, 

The violets of earth. 

But now I dread the night : it holds 

Within its weary bounds 
Strife, griefs, and fears, red battle-fields, 

And spectre-haunted grounds ! 

One night there sounded through my dreams 

A trumpet's stirring peal. 
And then methought I went forth armed, 

And clad in glittering steel — 
And sprang upon a battle-steed, 

And led a warrior band. 
And we swept, a flood of fire and death, 

Victorious through the land ! 

Oh, what wild rapture 'twas to mark 

My serried ranks advance, 
And see amid the foe go down 

Banner, and plume, and lance ! 
The living trampled o'er the dead-^— 

The fallen, line on line, 
Were crushed lilce grapes at vintage time, 

And blood was poured like wine ! 

My sword was dripping to its hilt, 
-\nd this small, girlish hand 



Planted the banner, lit the torch'. 
And waved the stern command. 

How swelled and burned within my heart 
Fierce hate and fiery pride — 

My very soul rode like a bark 
On the battle's stormy tide ! 

My pitying and all-woman's soul — 

Oh no, it was not mine ! 
Perchance mine slumbered, or had left 

Awhile its earthly shrine ; 
So the spirit of a Joan d'Arc 

Stole in my sleeping fi-ame. 
And wrote her history on my heart 

In words of blood and flame. 

My dead are with me in my dreams. 

Rise from their still, lone home — 
But are they as I loved them here 1 

Heaven, 'tis thus they come! 
Silent and cold, the pulseless form 

In burial garments dressed, 
The pale hands holding burial-flowers 

Close folded on their breast ! 

My living — they in whose tried hearts 

Mj wild, impassioned love 
Foldeth its wings contentedly, 

And nestles as a dove — 
They come, they hold me in their arms ; 

My heart, with joy oppressed, 
Seems panting 'neath its blessed weight, 

And swooning in my breast ; 

My eyes look up through tears of bliss. 

Like flowers through dews of even, 
There 's a painful fulness in my Ups, 

Till the kiss of love is given : 
When sudden their fresh, glowing lips 

Are colorless and cold. 
And an icy, shrouded corse is all 

My shuddering arms enfold ! 

Have I my guardian angels grieved. 

That they have taken flight 1 
Or fi-own'st thou on me, oh my God ! 

In the visions of the night ? 
Yet with a child's fond faith I rest 

Still on thy fatherhood ; 
Speak peace unto my troubled dreams. 

Thou merciful and good ! 

And oh ! if cares and griefs must come, 

And throng my humble way. 
Then let me, strengthened and refreshed. 

Strive with them in the day ; 
This glorious world which thou hast made. 

Spread out in bloom before me. 
Thy blessed sunshine on my path, 

'Thy radiant skies hung o'er me. 

But when, like ghosts of the sun's lost rays. 

Come down the moonbeams pale, 
-\nd the dark earth lies like an eastern bride 

Beneath her silvery veil — 
Then let the night, with its silence deep. 

Its dews, and its starry gleams. 
Be peace, and rest, and love — God, 

Smile on me in my dreams ! 



SARA J. CLARKE. 



393 



ILLUMINATION, 

ton THE TKIUJIPH OF OUR ARMS IN MEXICO. 

Light up thy homes, Columbia, 

For those chivahic men 
Who bear to scenes of warlike strife 

Thy conquering arms again ; 
Where glorious victories, flash on flash, 

Reveal their stormy way — 
Resaca's, Palo Alto's fields, 

The heights of Monterey ! 

They pile with thousands of thy foes 

Buena Vista's plain ; 
With maids, wives, at Vera Cruz, 

Swell high the list of slain ; 
They paint upon the southern skies 

■The blaze of burning domes — 
Their laurels dew with blood of babes : 

Light up, light up thy homes ! 

Light up your homes, oh fathers ! 

For those young hero bands 
Whose march is still through vanquished towns 

And over conquered lands ; 
Whose valor wild, impetuous. 

In all its fiery glow 
Pours onward like a lava-tide, 

And sweeps away the foe ! 

For those whose dead brows Glory crowns. 

On crimson couches sleeping ; 
And for home faces wan with grief, 

And fond eyes dim with weeping : 
And for the soldier, poor, unknown, 

Who battled madly brave. 
Beneath a stranger-soil to share 

A shallow, crowded grave. 

Light up thy home, young mother ! 

Then gaze in pride and joy 
Upon those fair and gentle girls, 

That eagle-eyed young boy ; 
And clasp thy darling little one 

Yet closer to thy breast, 
And be thy kisses on its Hps 

In yearning love impressed. 

In yon beleaguered city 

Were homes as sweet as thine ; 
There trembling mothers felt loved arms 

In fear around them twine ; 
The lad with brow of olive hue. 

The babe like lily fair. 
The maiden with her midnight eyes 

And wreath of raven hair. 

The booming shot, the murderous shell, 

Crashed through the crumbling walls, 
And filled with agony and death 

Those sacred household halls ; 
Then, bleeding, crushed, and blackened, lay 

The sister by the brother. 
And the torn infaut gasped and writhed 

On the bosom of the mother ! 

Oh, sisters, if you have no tears 

For fearful scenes like these ; 
If the banners of the victors veil 

The victims' agonies ; 



If ye lose the babe's and mother's cry 
In the noisy roll of drums ; 

If your hearts with martial pride throb high- 
Light up, light up your homes ! 



THE LAST GIFT. 

I LEAVE thee, love : in vain hast thou 

The God of life implored ; 
My clinging soul is torn from thine, 

My faithful, my adored ! 
My last gift — I have on it breathed 

In blessing and in prayer ; 
So lay it close, close to thy heart. 

This little lock of hair ! . 

I know thou wilt think tenderly 

And lovingly on me ; 
Thou wilt forget my waywardness 

When I am gone from thee ; 
Thou wilt remember all my love. 

Which made thee think me fair ; 
Thou wilt with many tears begem 

This Uttle lock of hair ! 

And yet at last thy grief's wild storm 

Will sigh itself to rest; 
And thou mayst choose another love. 

And clasp her to thy breast : 
But when she hides her glowing face 

In tearful gladness there. 
Oh, do not let her hand displace 

This little lock of hair ! 

The dark, rich hue thou oft hast praised, 

The ringlet still shall hold ; 
Still, as the sunlight on it falls. 

Give out quick gleams of gold : 
Though years roll by, no trace of change 

Its glossy rings shall wear — 
It never will grow gray, beloved. 

This little lock of hair ! 

And when the earth weighs chill and damp 

Above my resting-place. 
When fall moist tresses heavily 

Around my cold, dead face — 
'T is sweet to know a part of me 

Thine own life-glow may share — 
Thou 'It keep it warm, love, always warm, 

This little lock of hair ! 

Ah, dearest ! see how pale and cold 

Has grown this hand of mine I 
No longer now it glows and thrills 

Within the clasp of thine. 
I go ! — soon where my dying head 

Is pillowed with fond care. 
No trace of me shall linger, save 

This little lock of hair ! 
I see thee not ! I faintly feel 

The fast tears thou dost weep ; 
Kiss down my quivering eyelids, love. 

Thus, thus, and I will sleep. 
I go where angels beckon me, 

I go their heaven to share — ■ 
Yet with a longing envy leave 

This Uttle lock of hair ! 



394 



SARA J. CLARKE. 



A LOVER TO HIS FAITHLESS MISTRESS. 

Thou false ! thy voice is in mine ear ; 

The Jove-looks of tliine eyes, 
To meet my gaze most passionate, 

In dreamy softness rise ; 
I feel the beating of thy heart — 

I breathe thy perfumed sighs ! 

Thou false ! thy thrilling fingers part 

The locks from off my brow ; 
And on these lips, where live no more 

Fond prayer and burning vow, 
The wine and honey of thy kiss 

Are lingering even now. 

I mock myself with visions vain: 

Another life than mine 
Bathes in the rose-light of thy love ; 

Blush, tone, and glance of thine, 
Are pouring through another heart 

A tide of life divine ! 

At last I know thee — and my soul, 

From all thy spells set free, 
Abjures the cold, consummate art 

Shrined as a soul in thee, 
Priestess of falsehood — deeply learned 

In all heai't-treachery ! 

Yet look thou on me, if thine eyes 

May dare again to scan 
A face where honor is not masked, 

Nor Iruth put under ban — 
Wouldst know me for that poor, sad thing, 

A spirit-broken man 1 

Ay, look ! — is not this head yet borne 

Full haughtily and high 1 
Is this lip tremulous with sighs. 

Or pale with agony ? 
And wouldst thou feel a prouder fire 

Outflasliing from mine eye 1 

Each Ungering, murmuring thought of love. 
The heart which thou hast riven 

Crushes to silence — each regret 
For false joys thou hast given, 

And flings thy very memory 

To all the winds of heaven ! , 

Go, lavish on another man 

Thy frothy love's excess ; 
Go measure out thy practised words 

Of lip-deep tenderness ; 
Go dupe him with thy well-trained smiles. 

Thy meaningless caress ! 

Leave him in trusting folly blest — 

Enchant, enchain him still — 
Awake his most adoring thoughts. 

Make every heartstring thrill. 
Hold thou his life and very soul 

The blind slaves of thy will ! 

I give thee joy : thou hear'st fond lips 

A new love's tale repeating ; 
Thine every glance wealth's pomp and glare 

And glittering gauds are meeting. 
And merrily to the ring of coin 

Thy hollow heart is beatuig ! 



Thou workest miracles, fair saint, 
Not found in legends old : 

Thy showers of silver tears return 
■To thee in showers of gold ; 

Thy melting kisses change to gems, 
Sweet lady bought and sold ! 



HERVEY TO NINA. 

SUGGESTED BY A PASSAGE IN FBEDERIKA BKEMER. 

Divided in our lives, and yet twin-hearted. 
Our sad first parents shared a happier fate ; 

When from Love's Eden, dearest, we departed, 
'Twas ours to sever at the outer gate. 

Ah, yet I know whatever path thou 'rt tracing, 
Thy tearful eye is sometimes backward cast ; 

Thou art not coldly fi'om thy heart effacing 
The thrilling story of our blissful past — 

When life was like a sunset's glories blended 
With all the waking splendors of the morn ; [ed, 

And when, dear love, if some light showers descend- 
It seemed 'twas but that rainbows might be born. 

Oh warm, oh beautiful, oh glorious season. 
Like the first blushing time of Cashmere's roses ! 

My soul forgets cold truth and worldly reason, 
And in thy lap of languid joy reposes. 

In reveries dehcious I revisit 

Each spot where Love's impassioned tale was told ; 
Where moments passed of pleasure so exquisite, 

Time should have marked their flight with sands of 
gold. 
Again upon my throbbing breast thon 'rt leaning, 

Oh, fondly, wildly loved one — oh, adored ! 
Again come back thy words of tenderest meaning, 

That once such raptures through my bosom poured. 

Again I feel the wish, intense and burning, 
To live within thy life, to drink thine air ; 

That deep, mysterious, and mighty yearning 
Would drag me down from heaven, wert thou not 
there. 

A fount there was within each bosom flowing. 
That gushed not water, but love's purple wine ; 

Sparkling with rapture and with passion glowing. 
It maketh mortals for a space divine. 

'T was joy to know thee of that fountain drinking 
Within my soul upspringing but for thee ; 

And I of thine as deeply, all unthinldng 
There might be madness in that draught for me. 

When all of bliss the earth-born may inherit 
Divinely lavish was around us thrown. 

And when the mystic union of the spirit 
Had twined our glowing beings into one — 

Then were we parted : Hope's ecstatic vision 

Grew dim with tears, and Joy's youngpinion furled; 
Pillowed on flowers, we had a dream Elysian, 
And we have wakened in a stormy world ! 

Gone, for ever ! we beheld it vanish. 
As a warm cloud melts in the blue above ; 

Yet from our souls no power create can banish 
The golden memory of that dream of love ! 



SARA J. CLARKE. 



395 



CANST THOU FOEGET? 

Caxst thou forget, beloved, our first awaking 
From out the shadowy calms of doubts and dreams, 

To know Love's perfect sunlight round us breaking, 
Bathing our beings in its gorgeous gleams — 
Canst thou forget 1 

A sky of rose and gold was o'er us glowing, 
Around us was the morning breath of May ; 

Then met our soul-tides, thence together flowing, 
Then kissed our thought-waves, mingling on their 
way : Canst thou forget ? 

Canst thou forget when first thy loving fingers 
Laid gently back the locks upon my brow ] 

Ah, to my woman's thought that touch slill lingers 
And softly glides along my forehead now ! 

Canst thou forget 1 

Canst thou forget when every twilight tender, 
Mid dews and sweets, beheld our slow steps rove. 

And when the nights which come in starry splendor 
Seemed dim and pallid to our heaven of love 1 
Canst thou forget 1 

Canst thou forget the childlike heart-outpouring 
Of her whose fond faith knew no faltering fears 1 

The lashes drooped to veil her eyes adoring, 
Her speaking silence, and her blissful tears 1 
Canst thou forget 7 

Canst thou forget the last most mournful meeting. 
The trembling form clasped to thine anguished 
breast, 
The heart against thine own, now wildly beating, 
Now fluttering faint, grief-wrung, and fear-op- 
pressed — Canst thou forget 1 

Canst thou forget, though allLove's spells be broken. 
The wild farewell which rent our souls apart ? 

And that last gift, Aifection's holiest token. 
The severed tress, which lay upon thy heart — ■ 
Canst thou forget 1 

Canst thou forget, beloved one — comes thei-e never 
The angel of sweet visions to thy rest 1 

Brings she not back the fond hopes fled for ever. 
While one lost name thrills through thy sleeping 
breast — Canst thou forget ? 



INVOCATION TO MOTHER EARTH. 

Ou, Earth ! thy face hath not the grace 

That smiling Heaven did bless. 
When thou wert " good," and blushing stood 

In thy young lovehness ; 
And, mother dear, the smile and tear 

In thee are strangely met ; 
Thy joy and wo together flow — 

But ah ! we love thee yet. 

Thou still art fair, when morn's fi-esh air 
Thrills with the lark's sweet song ; 

When Nature seems to wake from dreams, 
And laugh and dance along ; 

Thou'rt fair at day, when clouds all gray 
Fade into glorious blue ; 



When sunny Hours fly o'er the flowers, 
And kiss away the dew. 

Thou 'rt fair at eve, when skies receive 

The last smiles of the sun ; 
When through the shades that twilight spreads 

The stars peep, one by one ; 
Thou 'rt fair at night, when full starlight 

Streams down upon the sod ; 
When moonlight pale on hill and dale 

Rests like the smile of God. 

And thou art grand, where lakes expand, 

And mighty rivers roll ; 
Where Ocean proud with threatenings loud 

Mocketh at man's control ; 
And grand thou art when lightnings dart 

And gleam athwart the sky ; 
When thunders peel, and forests reel. 

And storms go sweeping by ! 

We bless thee now, for gifts that thou 

Hast fi-eely on us shed ; 
For dew and showers, and beauteous bowers, 

And blue skies overhead ; 
For morn's perfiime, and midday's bloom, 

And evening's hour of mirth ; 
For glorious night, for all things bright, 

We bless thee. Mother Earth '. 

But when long years of care and tears 

Have come and passed away, 
The time may be, when sadly we 

Shall turn to thee, and say : 
" We are worn with life, its toils and strife, 

We long, we pine for rest; 
We come, we come, all wearied home — 

Room, mother, in thy breast !" 



"THERE WAS A ROSE." 

Theue was a rose, that blushing grew 

Within my life's young bower ; 
The angels sprinkled holy dew 

Upon the blessed flower : 
I glory to resign it, love, 

Though it was dear to me ; 
Amid thy laurels twine it, love, 

It only blooms for thee. 

There was a rich and radiant gem 

I long kept hid from sight. 
Lost from some seraph's diadem — 

It shone with Heaven's own light ! 
The world could never tear it, love. 

That gem of gems from me ; 
Yet on thy fond breast wear it, love, 

It only shines for thee. 

There was a bird came to my breast, 

When I was very young ; 
I only knew that sweet bird's nest, 

To me she only sung; _ 
But, ah ! one summer dayj reve, 

I saw that bird depart : 
The truant flew thy way, love. 

And nestled in thy heart. 



u 



396 



3ARA J. CLARKE. 



THE SCULPTOR'S LOVE. 

The sculptor paused before his finished work — 
A wondrous statue of divinest mould. 
Like Cytherea's were the rounded limbs, 
The hands, in whose soft fulness, still and deep, 
Like sleeping Loves, the chiselled dimples lay, 
The hair's rich fall, the lip's exquisite curve ; 
But most like Juno's were the brow of priJe, 
And lofty bearing of the matchless head. 
While over all a mystic holiness, 
Like Dian's purest smile, around her hung, 
And hushed the idle gazer, like the air 
Which haunts at night the temples of the gods. 

As stood the sculptor, with still-folded arms, 
And viewed this shape of rarest loveliness. 
No flush of triumph crimsoned o'er his brow, 
Nor grew his dark eye luminous with joy. 
Heart-crushed with grief, worn with intense desires. 
And wasting with a mad, consuming flame. 
He wildly gazed — his cold cheek rivaUing 
The whiteness of the marble he had wrought. 
The robe's loose folds which lay upon his breast 
Tumultuous rose and fell, like ocean-waves 
Upheaved by storms beneath ; and on his brow, 
In beaded drops, the dew of anguish lay. 
And thus he flung himself upoii the earth. 
And poured in prayer his wild and burning words : 

" Great Jove, to thy high throne a mortal's prayer 
In all the might of anguish struggles up ! 
Thou see'st this statue, chiselled by my hand — 
Thou hast beheld, as day by day it grew 
To more than earthly beauty, till it stood 
The wonder of the glorious world of art. 
The sculptor wrought not blindly : oft there came 
Blest visions to his soul of forms divine; 
Of white-armed Juno, in that hour of love, 
When fondling close the cuckoo, tempest-chilled, 
She all unconscious in that form did press 
The mighty sire of the eternal gods 
To her soft bosom ! — Aphrodite fair 
As first she trod the glad, enamored earth 
With small, white feet, spray-dripping from the sea ; 
Of crested Dian, when her nightly kiss 
Pressed down the eyelids of Endymion — 
Her silvery presence making all the au: 
Of dewy Latmos tremulous with love. 

" And now (deem not thy suppliant impious, 
Our being's source, thou Father of all life,) 
A wild, o'ermastering passion fires my soul : 
I madly love the work my hand hath wrought ! 
Intoxicate, I gaze through all the day. 
And mocking visions haunt my couch at night ; 
My heart is faint and sick with longings vain, 
A passionate thirst is parching up my life. 

" I call upon her, and she answers not ! 
The fond love-names I breathe into her ear 
Are met with maddening silence ; when I clasp 
Those slender fingers in my fevered hand. 
Their coldness chills me like the touch of death I 
And when my heart's wild beatings shake my frame. 
And pain my breast with love's sweet agony. 
No faintest throb that marble bosom stirs ! 

" Oh, I would have an eye to gaze in mine ; 
An ear to listen for my coining step ; 



A voice of love, with tones like Joy's own bells, 
To ring their silver changes on mine ear ; 
A yielding hand, to thrill within mine own. 
And lips of melting sweetness, full and warm ! 
Would change this deathless stone to mortal flesh. 
And barter immortality for love ! 

" If voice of earth, in wildest prayer, may reach 
To godhood, throned amid the purple clouds. 
To animate this cold and pulseless stone. 
Grant thou one brealh of that immortal air 
Which feedeth human life from age to age, 
And floats round high Olympus. — Hear, Jove ! 

" And so this form may shrine a soul of light, 
Whose starry radiance shall unseal these eyes. 
Send down the sky's blue deeps, Sire divine — 
One faintest gleam of that benignant smile 
Which glows upon the faces of the gods. 
And lights all heaven. — Hear, mighty Jove !" 

He stayed his prayer, and on his statue gazed. 
Behold, a gentle heaving stirred its breast I 
O'er all the form a flush of rose-light passed ; 
Along the limbs the azure arteries throbbed ; 
A golden lustre settled on the head. 
And gleamed amid the meshes of the hair ; 
The rounded cheek grew vivid with a blush ; 
Ambrosial breathings cleft the curved Ups, 
And softly through the arched nostril stole ; 
The fringed lids quivered and uprose, and eyes 
Like violets wet with dew drank in the light. 

Moveless she stood, until her wandering glance 
Upon the rapt face of the sculptor fell : 
Bewildered and abashed, it sank beneath 
The burning gaze of his adoring eyes. 
And then there ran through all her trembling frame 
A strange, sweet thrill of blissful consciousness : 
Life's wildest joy, in one delicious tide. 
Poured through the channels of her newborn heart. 
And Love's first sigh rose quivering from her breast ! 

She turned upon her pedestal, and smiled. 
And toward the kneeling youth bent tenderly. 
He rose, sprang forward with a passionate cry, 
And joyously outstretched his thrilling arms ; 
And lo ! the form he sculptured from the stone, 
Instinct with life, and radiant with soul, 
A breathing shape of beauty, soft and warm, 
Of mortal womanhood, all smiles and tears. 
In love's sweet trance upon his bosom lay. 



THE DREAM. 

Last night, my love, I dreamed of thee — 

Yet 'twas no dream elysian ; 
Draw closer to my breast, dear Blanche, 

The while I tell the vision ; 
Methought that I had left thee long. 

And, home in haste returning — 
My heart, lip, cheek, with love and joy 

And wild impatience burning — 

I called thee through the silent house ; 

But here, at last, I found thee, 
Where, deathly still and ghostly white. 

The curtains fell around thee. 
Dead — dead thou wert ! — cold lay that form, 

In rarest beauty moulded. 



SARA J. CLARKE. 



397 



And meekly o'er thy still, white breast 

The snowy hands were folded. 
Methouglit thy couch was fitly strewn 

With many a fragrant blossom ; 
Fresh violets thy fingers clasped, 

And rosebuds decked thy bosom : 
But thine eyes, so like young violets, 

Might smile upon me never. 
And the rose-bloom from thy cheek and lip 

Had fled away for ever I 
I raised thee lovingly — thy head 

Against my bosom leaning. 
And called thy name, and spoke to thee 

In words of tendercst meaning. 
I sought to warm thee at my breast — 

My arms close round thee flinging ; 
To breathe my life into thy lips, 

With kisses fond and clinging. 
Oh, hour of fearful agony ! 

In vain my phrensied pleading; 
Thy dear voice hushed, thy kind eye closed, 

My lonely grief unheeding! 
Pale wert tliou as the lily-buds 

Twined mid thy raven tresses, 
And cold thy hp and still thy heart ■ 

To all my wild caresses ! 

I woke, amid the autumn night. 

To hear the rain descending, 
And roar of waves and howl of winds 

In stormy concert blending. 
But, oh I my waking joy was morn. 

From heaven's own portals flowing. 
And the summer of thy living love 

Was round about me glowing ! 
I woke — ah, blessedness ! to feel 

Thy white arms round thee wreathing — 
To hear, amid the lonely night. 

Thy calm and gentle breathing ! 
I bent above thy rest till morn. 

With many a whispered blessing — 
Soft, timid kisses on thy lips 

And blue-veined eyelids pressing. 
While thus from Slumber's shadowy realm 

Thy truant soul recalling, 
Thou couldst not know whence sprang the tears 

Upon thy forehead falling. 
And oh, thine eyes ! — sweet wonderment, 

When thou didst ope them slowly. 
To mark mine own bent on thy face 

In rapture deep and holy ! 
Thou couldst not know, till I had told 

That dream of fearful warning, 
How much of heaven was in my words — 

" God bless thee, love — good-morning !" 



DARKENED HOURS. 

With folded arms and drooping head, 
I stand, my heart's blest goal unwon ; 

My soul's high purpose unattained — 
But life — but life goes hurrying on! 

I pause and linger by the way, 

\A'ith fainting heart and slumbering powers, 



And still the grand, immortal height 

Which I would climb, before me towers. 
And still far up its rugged steep. 

The poet-laurel mocks mine eyes ; 
While sweetly on its summit wave 

The fadeless flowers of paradise. 
My voice is silent, though I mark 

The toil and wo of human lives, 
The beauty of that human love 

That meekly suffers, trusts, and strives. 
My voice is silent, though I see 

The captive pining in his cell. 
And hear the exiled patriot breathe 

O'er the wild seas his sad farewell 
The song of joy is on my lip 

While Freedom's banners are unfurled, 
And Freedom's fearless battle-shouts 

And triumph-lays ring round the world ! 

]Vo glow of rapturous feeling comes 

To flush my cheek, or light mine eye. 
While golden splendors of the morn 

Are kindling all the eastern sky. 
Nor when, while dews weigh down the rose, 

I read amid the shadowy even 
That bright Evangel of our God, 

Whose words are worlds, the starry heaven. 

Yet was my nature formed to feel 

The gladness and the grief of life — 
To thrill at Freedom's name, and joy 

In all her brave and holy strife ; 
To tremble with the perfect sense 

Of all things lovely or sublime, 
The glory of the midniglit heaven, 

The beauty of the morning time. 
God-written thoughts are in my heart, 

And deep within my being lie 
Eternal truths and glorious hopes. 

Which I must speak before I die 
Who shall restore the early faith, 

The fresh, strong heart, the utterance bold 1 
Ah ! when may be this weary weight 

From off my groaning spirit rolled 1 

To Thee I turn, before whose throne 

No earnest suppliant bows in vain : 
My spirit's faint and lonely cry 

Thou wilt not in thy might disdain. 
Awake in me a truer life ! 

A soul to labor and aspire ; 
Touch thou my mortal lips, God, 

With thine own truth's immortal fire ! 

Be with me in my darkened hours — 

Bind up my bruised heart once more ; 
The grandeur of a lofty hope 

About my lovvly being pour ! 
Give strength unto my spirit's wing. 

Give light unto my spirit's eye. 
And let the sunshine of thy smile 

Upon my upward pathway lie ! 
Thus, when my soul in thy pure faith 

Hath grown serene, and free, and strong, 
Thy greatness may exalt my thought, 

Tliy love make beautiful my song. 



398 



SARA J. CLARKE. 



LOVE AND DARING. 

Thou darest not love me ! thou canst only see 
The great gulf set between us: hadst thou love, 
'T would bear thee o'er it on a wing of fire ! 
Wilt put from thy faint lip the mantling cup, 
The draught thou 'st prayed for with divinest thirst, 
For fear a poison in the chalice lurks 1 
Wilt thou be barred from thy soul's heritage, 
The power, the rapture, and the crown of life, 
By the poor guard of danger set about it? 
I tell thee that the richest flowers of heaven 
Bloom on the brink of darkness. Thou hast marked 
How sweetly o'er the beetling precipice 
Hangs the young June-rose with its crimson heart : 
And wouldst not sooner peril life to win 
That royal flower, that thou mightst proudly wear 
The trophy on thy breast, than idly pluck 
A thousand meek-faced daisies by the way ? 
How dost thou shudder at Love's gentle tones. 
As though a serpent's hiss were in thine ear ! 
Albeit thy heart throbs echo to each word. 
Why wilt not rest, oh weary wanderer, 
Upon the couch of flowers Love spreads for thee. 
On banks of sunshine 1 — voices silver-toned 
Shall lull thy soul with strange, wild harmonies, 
Rock thee to sleep upon the waves of song; 
Hope shall watch o'er theewith her breath of dreams, 
Joy hover near, impatient for thy waking — 
Her quick wing glancing through the fragrant air. 

Why dost thou pause hard by the rose-wreathed 
Why turn thee from the^paradise of youth, [gate ? 
Where Love's immortal summer blooms and glows, 
And wrap thyself in coldness as a shroud 1 
Perchance 'tis well for thee — yet does the flame 
That glows with heat intense and mounts toward 
As fitly emblem holiest purity [heaven. 

As the still snow-wreath on the mountain's brow. 

Thou darest not say, " I love," and yet thou lovest. 
And think'st to crush the mighty yearning down, 
That in thy spirit shall upspring for ever ! 
Twinned with thy soul, it lived in thy first thoughts, 
It haunted with strange dreams thy boyish years, 
And colored with its deep, empurpled hue. 
The passionate aspirations of thy youth. 
Go, take from June her roses ; from her streams 
The bubbling fountain-springs ; from life take love. 
Thou hast its all of sweetness, bloom, and strengtii. 

There is a grandeur in the soul that dares 
To live out all the life God lit within ; 
That battles with the passions hand to hand. 
And wears no mail, and hides behind no shield ; 
That plucks its joy in the shadow of Death's wing. 
That drains with one deep draught the wine of hfe. 
And that with fearless foot and heaven-turned eye 
May stand upon a dizzy precipice. 
High o'er the abyss of ruin, and not fall! 



A MORNING RIDE 

Whex troubled in spirit, when weary of life. 
When I faint 'neath its burdens, and shrink from 

its strife — 
When its fruits turned to ashes are mocking my 

taste. 
And its fairest scene seems but a desolate waste ; 
Then come ye not near me my sad heart to cheer 
With Friendship's soft accents or Sympathy's tear; 
No counsel I ask, and no pity I need. 
But bring me, oh, bring me my gallant young steed, 
With his high-arched neck and his nostril spread 
HiseyefuUof fire, and Ms step full of pride! [wide. 
As I spring to his back, as I seize the strong rein, 
The strength of my spirit returneth again ; 
The bonds are all broken which fettered my mind. 
And my cares borne away on the wings of the wind ; 
My pride lifts its head, for a season bowed down, 
A nd the queen in my nature now puts on her crown. 
Now we 're off like the winds to tlie plains whence 

they came. 
And the rapture of motion is filling my frame. 
On, on speeds my courser, scarce printing the sod, 
Scarce crushing a daisy to mark where he trod. 
On, on, like a deer, when the hounds' early bay 
Awakes the wild echoes, away and away ! 
Still faster, still farther he leaps at ray cheer. 
Till the rush of the startled air whiiTs in my ear ; 
Now 'long a clear rivulet lieth my track — 
See his glancing hoof tossing the white pebbles back; 
Now a glen dark as midnight — what matter ? — 

we'll down, 
Though shadows are round us, and rocks o'er us 

frown ; 
The thick branches shakeaswe're hurryingthrough, 
And deck v with spangles of silvery dew. 
Whatawild .ought of triumph, that thisgirlishhand 
Such a st. "d i'i the might of his strength may com- 
mand I 
What a glorious creature ! ah, glance at him now, 
As I check him a while on this green hillock's brow ; 
How he tosses his mane with a shrill, joyous neigh, 
And paws the firm earth in his proud, stately play ! 
Hurrah, off again — dashing on, as in ire, 
Till the long flinty pathway is flashing with fire ! 
Ho, a ditch ! — shall we pause 1 No, the bold leap 

we dare — 
Like a swift-winged arrow we rush through the air. 
Oh ! not all the pleasure that poets may praise — 
Not the 'wildering waltz in the ballroom's blaze, 
Nor the chivalrous joust, nor the daring race, 
Nor the swift regatta, nor merry chase. 
Nor the sail high heaving waters o'er. 
Nor the rural dance on the moonlight shore — 
Can the wild and fearless joy exceed 
Of a fearless leap on a fiery steed. 



ANNA H. PHILLIPS. 



" Helen Irving" is the graceful nom de 
plume of Miss Anna H. Phillips, of Lynn, 
Massachusetts — probably the youngest of 
our young American poetesses. She is not 
a professional authoress, having written but 
little, and published less ; but, judging by the 
quality rather than the quantity of her pro- 
ductions, she can not be denied the posses- 
sion of a fine poetical genius. Her first poem, 
Love and Fame, which appeared in the Home 
Journal, in the spring of 1847, Mr. Willis 



thus introduced to the public ; "We might 
have called attention, very reasonably and 
justly, to the beautiful versification of this 
production — to the melody, and the varied 
succession of melody, in the flow of the stan- 
zas. They prove the nicest possible ear, with 
the happiest subjection to critical judgment. 
True genius is in the conception, we think, 
and an assurance of successful genius lies in 
the twin excellence of giving so beautiftd a 
thought its fit embodiment." 



LOVE AND FAME. 

It had passed in all its grandeur, that sounding 

summer shower 
Had paid its pearly tribute to each fair expectant 

flower. 
And while a thousand sparklers danced lightly on 

the spray. 
Close folded to a rosebud's heart one tiny rain-drop 

lay. 

Throughout each fevered petal had the heaven- 
brought freshness gone, , ;• 

Thej^ had mingled dew and fragrance i.! their very 
souls were one ; i, ■■< 

The bud its love in perfume breathed, till its pure 
and starry guest 

Grew glowing as the life-hue of the lips it fondly 
pressed. 

He dreamed away the hours with her, his gentle 

bride and fair. 
No thought filled his young spirit, but to dwell for 

ever there. 
While ever bending wakefuUy, the bud a fond 

watch kept. 
For fear the envious zephyrs might steal him as 

he slept. 

But forth from out his tent of clouds in burnished 

armor bright. 
The conquering sun came proudly in the glory of 

his might. 
And, like some grand enchanter, resumed his wand 

of power. 
And shed the splendor of his smile on lake, and 

tree, and flower. 

Then, peering through the shadowy leaves, the rain- 
drop marked on high, 

A many-hued triumphal arch span all the eastern 
sky — • 

He saw his gUttcring comrades all wing their joyous 
flight, 



And stand— a glorious brotherhood — to form that 
bow of light ! 

Aspiring thoughts his spirit thrilled — " Oh, let me 
join them, love ! 

I'll set thy beauty's impress on yon bright arch 
above. 

And, as a world's admiring gaze is raised to iris 
fair, 

'T will deem my own dear rosebud's tmt the love- 
liest color there !" 

The gentle bud released her clasp — swift as a 
thought he flew. 

And brightly mid that glorious band he soon was 
glowing too — 

All quivering with delight to feel that she, his rose- 
bud bride, 

Was gazing, with a swelling heart, on this, his hour 
of pride ! 

But the shadowy night came down at last — the 

glittering bow was gone. 
One little hour of triumph was all the drop had 

won: 
He had lost the warm and tender glow, his distant 

bud-love's hue. 
And he sought her sadly sorrowing — a tear-dimmed 

star of dew. 

NINA TO RIENZL* 

Leave thee, Rienzi ! Speak not thus. 

Why should I quit thy side ? 
Say, shall I shrink with craven fear. 

Thine own, and freedom's bride 1 
Whence comes the sternness on thy lip — - 

Needs Nina to be tried 1 

* It is recorded, that when the "last of the tribunes" 
saw, in the discontent of the people and the withdrawal 
of the favor of the church, approaching peril, he bade his 
young wile seelt shelter witli those who would cherish 
and shield her, and leave him to meet danger alone. But 
she nobly preferred suffering and death with him she 
loved, to life with separation from him. 
399 



400 



ANNA H. PHILLIPS. 



I leave thee ! didst thou win and wed 

A fond, weak girl — to twine 
Her arms around thee in thy joy — 

To press her lips to thine, ' 

And breathe a love born of the heart. 

But not the soul divine ! 

To thrill with childish awe, whene'er 
Thy brow gi-ew dark with thought. 

And when the threat'ning lightnings gleamed 
Thy dark'ning sky athwart. 

Shrink from the crash, and leave thee lone, 
Amid the wrecks it wrought ! 

Am I not thine — wedded to thee 
In heart, and soul, and mind — • 

Thou, and free Rome, within ray breast 
As on one altar shrined — 

My destiny, my very life, 

Closely with thine entwined ! 

Thou calledst me thine, when freemen flung 

Fame's laurel on thy brow ; 
And am I less thine own — my love 



Less fondly cherished now. 
When Rome dishonoring miscreants dare 
That fame to disavow ! 

Look in mine eyes ! thou know'st thy love 

Has been to me a heaven, 
In which my soul has floated, like 

The one pure star of even — 
Proud in the lofty consciousness 

Of glory gained and given. 

Nay, strive not to look coldly, love, 
Thou reckst not of the power 

With which my heart will cUng to thine 
In mad misfortune's hour — ■ 

Glowing more bright its changeless truth, 
As darker storms shall lower. 

And oh, Rienzi ! shoukl Heaven deem 

Thy sacred mission done, 
How glorious 'twere to die with thee, 

My own, my worshipped one — 
As, bathed in living hght, the day 

Dies with the settmg sun ! 



THE END. 



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